Policing Middle Earth
by aotearoan
Summary: Vimes is Ankh Morpork's Ambassador to Middle Earth. As might be expected from the man who hates kings and Destiny, Middle Earth makes Vimes angry. Will he punch Aragorn in the nose? Will he learn a few things? Tune in for the latest!
1. Meeting with Vetinari

_Vimes, Vetinari and the Discworld belong to Pratchett. Middle Earth and everything in it is Tolkien's. _

"No."

"I see", said Lord Vetinari, his voice carefully controlled. "In that case, we will make… other arrangements."

"Other arrangements?"

"Oh, you know." Vetinari seemed absorbed in his paperwork, and did no more than wave a long hand vaguely. "Alternatives."

Commander Vimes of the City Watch saluted precisely. He was suspicious. He was suspicious before the interview had started, and he was suspicious now. Suspicion was an integral part of Vimes' genetic makeup in any case, but Vetinari's casualness was not helping. Someone had once described Suspicion as a spiky little imp. If that was the case, Vimes reasoned (1), Vetinari's casual air had just given it caffeine.

"Alternatives?"

"Yes. If you don't want to be our fair city's ambassador to Middle Earth," said Vetinari, "- emphasising, of course, that the position is entirely voluntary- then we will just have to find someone else."

Vimes was fascinated. Vetinari's lips had pronounced 'our fair city' with barely a quirk of distaste at the monstrous dishonesty of the phrase.

"Someone else?"

"Indeed. And please stop repeating my words" He sent Vimes a cool glance over the top of his paperwork, and continued. "In fact, I think that would be preferable. You are, as the Lady Sybil reminded me only this morning, a Duke. To send a Duke on a common ambassadorship is somewhat inappropriate. The role, I believe, involves running and sweatiness and the odd bit of mud. It is not, shall we say, very Ducal. And it is vitally important for Ankh-Morpork that the outcome we desire is achieved."

"Sir-" Vimes began. Vetinari waved a long hand.

"You're about to ask where the money is, aren't you? Your cynicism never fails to astound me."

"It is quite simple. Middle Earth is a backwards collection of lands, ruled by autocratic royalists and peopled by creatures to whom it would be a stretch to apply the word 'multicultural'. It is an unpleasant place. It keeps getting involved in nasty and pointless wars, and it is on the brink of another, particularly nasty, one. They have some frankly archaic notions of good and evil and allow these notions to influence major policy decisions."

Vetinari sighed, just barely. "It is also one of Ankh-Morpork's major trading partners."

"Ah." Vimes said. "I see". He saw. "And you want me to waltz in and do what, exactly? Ambassadorise? "

"Oh, no. No. You told me quite clearly that you are not interested."

Vimes saluted again. He was beginning to get the impression that he had lost.

"We will have to send someone else, instead. Do you have any suggestions?"

"Nossir".

"I was thinking about sending young Carrot. He is doing very well, I believe. And there is a rather interesting situation that I believe Carrot might learn from."

"Sir."

"You see, my contact there is sending some of his men on some sort of- " Vetinari glanced at the papers. They were covered in squiggly rune-like letters that Vimes could not read, though he was squinting in a rather pronounced way in his attempt to. "- well, he uses the word 'quest'". Vetinari continued, looking faintly worried. "Oh dear.'

It worried Vimes, too. Anyone who would use the word 'quest' in a serious sentence must be some kind of Lord Rust type. And Vetinari considered the man his equal, so he must have significant power. That meant that some of the people in charge of Middle Earth were the sort that Vimes would happily arrest on a charge of being Naughtily Patriotic and wouldn't trust with the care of a small beetle.

"Your opinion on this, Captain?"

"Sir. The man sounds insane."

"Even more worryingly, Captain, he is not insane. That is simply how things work there. And he is not a man, exactly."

Vimes observed that they must have progressive ideas about gender in Middle Earth.

"Oh no, Captain. You misunderstand. He is, in fact, an elf."

"What, one of those skinny types with the high-pitched laughter? I really don't-"

"A real elf, Vimes. And in a position of great power."

Vimes sputtered. "But - why are we dealing with such people? Everyone knows elves stick sharp things into people for fun! What the hell are they thinking, putting one of those things in charge? The place must be bonkers!"

Vimes became aware of a chilly silence emanating from the Patrician. His voicebox, being a cowardly sort, elected to join in.

"Middle Earth has vast reserves of precious metals and minerals that we need. It is similar in many ways to our own world. Narrativatum plays a significant role there, as it does here. And they have gold. And silver. And something called 'mithril'. And, I believe, some of the finest treacle lakes in existence. They haven't even heard of natural treacle, and they sell us the stuff cheap. They don't even realise that you can get treacle out of the ground! Their dwarves are even better craftsman than ours. And by God, we need that treacle."

"You see my problem, Vimes. We _must_ deal with this messed up, regressive country. And in order to do so, we must get... involved. They have internal problems at the moment with which we can help. If we do not do so, the people who might take power next will be even more difficult to deal with."

"More importantly-"

"Even than treacle?" Vimes cut in, rather suicidally. But Vetinari barely paused to glare at him.

"More importantly, the wizards inform me - with rather too much glee, it must be said- that Middle Earth is in danger of becoming dangerously imbalanced. If their Dark Lord wins, well, it would seriously disturb the narrativium deposits. The Dark Lord isn't _meant_ to win. If he wins, the narrativium deposits are in danger of running out…"

"Don't you mean that the other way around?"

"Well, of course it could work the other way around, too. If Middle Earth was running low on narrativium, the Dark Lord would be more likely to win. However, if the Dark Lord wins, that would also affect the narrativium. Narrativium couldn't exist in a world where a Dark Lord _wins. _Even aside from trade, our world is similar enough to Middle Earth that we risk being dangerously imbalanced by such an event there."

"But in some ways, Middle Earth is remarkably different from the Discworld. There are elves there, Vimes. Elves that do more than giggle and hurt things. They actually appear to wield considerable political power without, as far as I can make out, smashing anything for fun."

Vimes felt surprise and disbelief at this, and so saluted.

"What does he mean by 'quest'?"

"Exactly that, I am afraid. He seems to have decided that the way to deal with this complex political conflict is to arm a "ragtag bag of adventurers" and send them to destroy the 'one ring'- I believe this to be a code word for a weapon of great power- in something he calls "the fires of Mt Doom."

This gets worse and worse, thought Vimes, wishing he could roll a smoke.

"To do this, he is sending an elf, a dwarf, the son of the kingdom which stands to gain most if the weapon falls into his hands, four small people whose role he does not fully explain, a wizard, and a long lost heir to the throne of the aforementioned kingdom."

'You can see why I think this little enterprise needs some sensible outside help."

Vimes counted slowly on his fingers. "You mean- he's sending a dwarf, and everyone knows they're greedy little buggers who covet treasure (though I know some fine, decent dwarves myself) with a powerful weapon that is probably gold, possibly jewellery?"

"Yes."

"And a wizard? Is he anything like _our_ wizards?"

"One can only hope not."

"Four little people? They're not Nac Mac Feegle by any chance? Good grief, those things are powerful weapons in themselves. The last Nac Mac Feegle I met headbutted Detritus!"

"He calls them 'Hobbits'. Perhaps they are a regional variation."

Vimes continued making his way down his mental checklist. He was going from infuriating to most infuriating. "And an _elf?_"

"I am afraid I cannot comment on that. I can only assume their elves are slightly different from the ones that plague us from time to time."

"And a king."

"Technically, an heir."

"I _hate_ long lost heirs. Swanking around, thinking they can just swan in and take other the bloody city just because they share some genes with some inbred old dead guy and have some sparkly jewellery and a broken sword they pulled out of a lake-"

"The sparkly jewellery is the Ring of Barahir, and the sword was not in a lake, but you are broadly correct."

"I hate royalty. I really hate them."

"I know."

"You don't have to go," Vetinari said, as Vimes clenched and unclenched his fists. "As I said, I could send someone else".

"Who?"

"I was thinking Lord Rust..."

They both considered, briefly, sending Lord Rust to a place where even the people in charge used the word 'quest' as if they took it seriously.

"No."

"No."

"Or Captain Carrot?"

They considered Captain Carrot. He'd be perfect. He'd love it there. He'd inspire people, and make glorious speeches, and generally make himself useful. Questing, and honour... Carrot would fit right in.

"No."

"No?"

"No. I'm not having him running around with long-lost heirs and enchanted jewelery. He's a growing lad, our Carrot. He doesn't need to be distracted by strange ideas".

Vetinari had won. Vimes was going to Middle Earth.

(1) after making a mental note to arrest whoever had come up with the metaphor


	2. Arrival and first impressions

_A/N_

Recognisable creations belong to JRR Tolkien or Terry Pratchett (or possibly other famous works). I am just acting the magpie.

Vimes' impressions of the characters do not necessarily reflect mine! (and may well change.) So all you Aragorn/Legolas/Boromir/Gimli/Frodo lovers out there… take it up with Vimes.

Sorry for the delays and thank you so much for the encouraging reviews! We'll meet Merry, Pippin and especially Sam in the next chapter, as I thought they deserved more space.

_Narrativium_ is a concept found in the Discworld series:

"_The primary element is known as narrativium, the elemental substance of Story. Nothing on the Disc can exist without a Story first existing to mould its destiny and determine its form." (Wikipedia). The idea is that a third son can't help but succeed where his two older brothers have failed in a quest, that a million to one chance always succeeds, etc… _

**Arrival**

The glass globe filled with a pair of bushy eyebrows. Vimes leaned back nervously: they looked like they might leap out and attack.

"Gandalf!" Ridcully bellowed into the globe, causing Vimes and Vetinari to wince. "It will take a few minutes for the sound to come through. Those little sound waves travel slower than those little light waves, they tell me." He sighed and shook his head. "He's holding it upside down again. Silly bugger," he said in what he thought was a quiet voice. "Too much pipeweed, doncherknow", he added hypocritically.

Things had moved quickly after Vimes had agreed (technically) to become the Disc's first ambassador to Middle Earth. He'd only had the interview with Vetinari twenty minutes ago, and now he was standing in a dusty office on floor 17.5 of the Unseen University, watching that venerable institution's Archchancellor bellow into an equally dusty glass ball. It looked a little like a fishing float, and apparently it was a vital instrument in his voyage to Middle Earth.

"It's a Palantir," Ridcully explained proudly. "It's from Middle Earth. They used to have several, but they lost a couple. They think they've been destroyed but actually we at Unseen University- ah- _acquired _one by accident on a field trip." Ridcully looked a little embarrassed, muttered something about _lack of faculty funding _and _desperate measures_, and continued.

"We use them to talk to their wizards over there, well, I call them 'wizards' but they just get up to any old thing, really, and don't even have a real university."

"Gandalf knows my cousin Radagast, you see, but he's a bit of a pompous old git who it is DELIGHTFUL TO SEE YOU GANDALF! HOW GOES THINGS WITH YOU, OLD FRIEND?" A loud throat-clearing sound had made Ridcully aware half way through his sentence that Gandalf could hear every word, but Ridcully was not embarrassed at all. "HERE'S THE MAN WHO'S JOINING YOUR LITTLE FELLOWSHIP! A GOOD BLOKE, VIMES!"

"I can hear you perfectly well, Ridcully. There is no need to bellow in that ridiculous manner." So that was Gandalf- Vimes rechecked his hurriedly assembled mental notes- the Wizard. Vimes could still see little more than his eyebrows, although occasionally the depths of the fishing float were punctuated with flashes of keen eyes. Apparently, Gandalf _was_ holding his own fishing float upside down, because the eyes were above the eyebrows. But his rather grumpy voice was loud and clear. "Hello, Samuel Vimes."

"Hello…" Vimes returned, frowning back at the eyebrows.

"Right, well, it's all in order at _my _end, even if you seem to be upside down at yours. Why don't we get started? There is no time to waste while the shadow grows…" Ridcully rolled his eyes, and Gandalf sent him a piercing glance like an upside down icicle.

"One moment", Vetinari interrupted the wizardly glares quietly. "I must have a last word with Vimes, before he leaves."

"Now?" Vimes spluttered. "I'm leaving now? But Sybil - and little Sam- and the Watch- I haven't finalised the recruits' timetables with Detritus and I'm afraid he'll try and read them out himself again…" Vimes was momentarily pleased he'd prioritised his family before the Watch out loud, but that evaporated when he realised that Vetinari was not moved in the slightest.

"Oh, the wizards have kindly set up a time-loop." Vetinari said casually, as if that was all sorted, and as if that explained why they had to hurry now.

Ridcully nodded enthusiastically. "Standard alternate-universe arrangement, patented from the Narnians. Not time will pass on the Disc while adventure continues yadda yadda… although if you die of course... The rates they charge…" He slipped into the conditional for honesty's sake. "...would charge if we actually paid them would be bloody extortionate." Vimes opened his mouth to protest that the last time he'd been caught up in time travel had not been a pleasant experience, but did not get a chance.

"Vimes," said Vetinari almost urgently, while Ridcully and Gandalf began arguing ferociously over what they called 'the Narnia question' in the background, "I am not sure how clearly I have conveyed to you the nature of Middle Earth society. I have touched on the subject of narrativium, but I must explain the context further. It is not like here. You may be slightly predisposed against it. You may get very angry."

"Monarchy, destiny, autocratic rulers with shiny jewellery, glory and valour and honour and not kicking foes in the kneecap because it's safer than hand-to-hand combat… these are all stock standard in Middle Earth. Not because they're fools. Not because they're old-fashioned, though Gods know they are that too… that's just how things work there. Tropes and archetypes and narrative arcs are as prevalent there as they are here, but they are far more fundamental to the fabric of their world. Here, stories can be wrestled into new shapes, challenged and spliced and transplanted. There, they're like gravity."

"The wizards have been studying Middle Earth for a while, though don't tell them that or they'll be offended. Stories have power here, but in Middle Earth… stories are physics. Sometimes, I even wonder if the Disc is merely an offshoot of Middle Earth, or if the Creator had some of its aspects in mind… "

"What I am trying to say is that everyone might appear slightly noble, slightly Lord Rust-like. _Do not take it as a personal insult. _Do not take it as a personal challenge. It is, unfortunately, how things work there. I am sending you because this time they might not work well enough. They might need a little outside help."

Vimes was pretty sure this boiled down to the standard, pre-Ambassadorship "don't punch anyone rich on the nose and _please _try to stay out of trouble" lecture, so he merely saluted earnestly.

"You mean, we have to deal with the Quest stuff because that's just how it works there, but at the same time they really need my help because the Quest stuff is bloody stupid?"

Vetinari sighed. "Good luck, Vimes. Got everything? Never mind, I'm sure they'll provide you with the necessary equipment. Goodbye."

Vimes, patting his pocket to make sure he had his cigar case, blinked at this and when he opened his eyes again he was standing in the centre of a small courtyard surrounded by a multicultural array of beings who were regarding him with curiousity. The architecture and gardening, if he'd been in the mood to take note of such things, were really quite nice.

Dwarves. Humans. Gandalf of the Eyebrows. Those skinny-looking people must be elves. And that short, hairy man- what was he? He should observe them all carefully, in case he was expected to hire one in the Watch.

"Welcome to Rivendell, Samuel Vimes of the Watch of Ankh Morpork", said a voice from behind him that unoriginal authors would describe as 'stern but kind'. (1)

"Er," said Vimes, and saluted.

A couple of hours later, the real business was over. It was clear to Vimes that the real business involved Gandalf and Elrond gently manipulating the other attendees to agree with what they'd already decided: that the Ring must be destroyed. Then they began to decide who would join what Vimes referred to mentally as This Damn Silly Quest. It was also obvious that Gandalf and Elrond already knew who would be volunteering for what, even if the volunteers didn't know it yet.

It was all just as ghastly and depressing as he suspected it would be. The little hairy man, who Vimes shortly discovered was a Hobbit, or halfling, was Frodo. He was the most incompetent person at the council, so naturally he was the one entrusted with the most dangerous task. He had rosy little cheeks and curly hair, he would clearly last less than a day in the wilderness, and Vimes just knew he would have to spend the entire trip resisting the urge to give him (alternatively) a sweet or a thick ear.

Boromir was the name of the man who had stood up and argued with everyone else at the council. Vimes had initially quite liked him because he wasn't soppily convinced by the words 'Heir!' "Destiny!' and 'Quest!', and had actually tried to point out some of the _practicalities _of the trip they were about to attempt, a word that was absent from Elrond's vocabulary. But then he'd realised he was arrogant, dim, and carried so many chips on his shoulder they should really be wrapped in newspaper and doused in ketchup and vinegar.

Next was the dwarf. There were a couple of dwarves here, and a speedily homesick Vimes felt a surge of familiarity when he saw them. He was delighted to meet Gimli, who would also be going on the quest, as he generally got on well with dwarves when the scheming little buggers weren't inciting troll riots or claiming not to be in Vimes' jurisdiction.

Unfortunately, relations were soured somewhat when Vimes, who really was trying his hardest, tried his Dwarfish out on Gimli. Gimli had first looked shocked (Dwarfish was supposed to be a secret language!) then mortified (how had Vimes known that about his mother?) then furious (what right had this stranger to announce it to the world?).

Realising his linguistic abilities had again landed him in the proverbial, Vimes then tried to repair the damage by presenting Gimli with a fried rat (it had taken him hours to attract one in Elrond's pristine kitchens). He then inadvertently discovered another difference between Middle Earth and the Disc: dwarves did not eat rats here. Gimli did not take offence, because he had by know decided firmly that Vimes was quite mental. Gimli treated him kindly and with caution and a hint of amusement. This was a shame, because Gimli seemed to be the sort of chap that Vimes would ordinarily get on quite well with, even offering Vimes some of his tobacco (which turned out _not _to be tobacco) before Vimes had made his terrible faux pas.

Vimes realised that, in Gimli's mental universe, Vimes was now the second-most useless member of the Fellowship, only slightly less expendable than the Elf but at least not actively hated.

Apparently Middle Earth dwarves had some sort of long-running grudge against Elves. Trust dwarves to have a long-running grudge against _somebody._ Vimes wondered idly if that meant there were no trolls here: a shame, because a troll or two might be useful on the Quest.

He also wondered what the equivalent of Koom Valley was here. There must be one. He heard muttered references to 'the Mirkwood Incident' and sour looks passing between the dwarf and a skinny elf in green and brown.

Vimes privately shared Gimli's reservations about this elf, because he had caught the elf nodding seriously at a tree, as if he was considering a point it had made. The elf was called Legolas and Vimes had decided he was a bit of a hippy and probably a vegetarian. A lot of elves Vimes had met were chronic daydreamers with boring personalities. He wasn't sure this particular elf had a personality, because he didn't seem to talk (except, apparently, to vegetation).

At least he was not as drippy as the Rivendell elves, who talked in hushed voices about the horrors of Mirkwood, which was, Vimes gathered, a rather downmarket neighbourhood in elf real estate these days. Vimes felt some sympathy with Legolas because he recognised some of the looks the other elves were giving him. He got them himself when he was invited to fancy parties. They said: how did he get invited? Isn't it a shame we have to be nice to him? Those Mirkwood elves, getting above themselves… surely they should be using the servant's entrance? It was all a question of having the right Ancestors, and apparently the Mirkwood elves didn't.

Legolas was technically a Prince, but because he was not aggressively royal, Vimes was not holding it against him. Especially as he was so busy holding a grudge against a much more royal member of the fellowship: Aragorn.

Vimes had guessed that Aragorn would be very similar to Carrot. Same low profile royalty, same leadership, same charisma, same inter-species girlfriend problems. He was very similar, with two exceptions. Firstly, Aragorn did not smell of soap. Secondly, Vimes could not stand him.

He really was afraid he was going to punch him on the nose. Quite soon.

(1) because it was stern, see, but also kind.


	3. You Can Always Trust a Sam

A/N Thanks for the encouraging reviews! Sorry for the rather-too-much character exposition, should be getting into some action soon.

Aragorn lovers: I apologise for nothing.

**You Can Always Trust a Sam. **

In an impressive display of the complete and utter lack of common sense displayed throughout the organisation of the Quest, they set off for the wilds on Hogswatch, in the middle of winter. A nasty, cynical corner of Vimes' mind was quite pleased about this.

There was countryside. Lots of it. More than Vimes was used to. He missed cobblestones under his feet. His practically-cardboard boots, which he'd hung onto when Elrond had provided him with more suitable gear, weren't used to all the countryside either.

Boromir and Aragorn strode manfully about, inhaled deep lungfuls of fresh air, struck poses and made boding comments about the perilous and treacherous nature of the terrain, the weather, the hidden enemies that no doubt surrounded them, the weather, the pebbles, and the terrain. They boasted, brooded and stroked their massive weapons.* They were clearly enjoying themselves hugely. The Hobbits, who weren't very Nac-Mac-Feeglish after all, supported each other, kept their tempers up and were generally cheerful in the face of being short. Gandalf muttered to himself, smoked, and refused to answer questions directly, just like the wizards Vimes was used to. His staff even had a knob on the end. Gimli trudged on, occasionally darting wary looks at Vimes, (probably in case he tried to offer him another rat or speak Khuzdul again) and looks of bemusement at Legolas. Legolas trailed along behind, squinting vaguely at flowers. ("Let Legolas, whose eyes are keen, be the rearguard", Gandalf had said.)

Vimes had a stitch, and thought about how he was getting older.

They walked for a whole day. He hadn't realised the Quest would involve so much walking. Vimes coped because he often walked all day/night on the beat at home. He used his special policeman's walk, 'proceeding', but even he was exhausted by the end of the day. A whole day! He really hoped they'd reach Mordor soon.

He collapsed onto a large rock, jumped up hastily to check he had not inadvertently sat on a troll (he had had enough of causing cultural offence for one day) and collapsed again, rubbing his aching calves. The hobbits, he noticed, were starting dinner, and after a few minutes of groaning and feeling sorry for his leg muscles, Vimes decided to join them.

He knew Frodo by sight. The other three he had been introduced to, but had only seen the tops of their heads and so he couldn't remember who they were. He'd avoided them in their long stay in Rivendell, because they made him feel uncomfortable. They were about the same size as young Sam, his son back home, and Vimes had to try really hard not to treat them in the same way. At least Sam had grown out of _Where's My Cow_, but he kept expecting the hobbits to rush up to him and demand that he join them in building a tree house, slaughtering foes, or experimenting on one of Sybil's dragons. ('What if we feed it Nobby, Daddy?')

"So," said Vimes, settling next to the hobbits. "Dinner?"

"Sam's cooking," Frodo said helpfully, casting the aforementioned hobbit a friendly look.

"Sam, eh? Well, well… they do say you can always trust a Sam." _Ye Gods,_ thought Vimes, _now there's three of us. And I sound like their favourite uncle. _

Sam gave him a strange look, and decided to ignore the comment. "Do you like bacon, Mister Vimes?"

_Mister… _The word sparked a difficult mix of emotions. Vimes accepted 'Mister' from those who had earned it, those who knew him well. But of course, Sam wasn't to know that. And, come to think of it, he called Frodo 'Mister' too…

Withholding judgement and comment, Vimes returned to the bacon. "Yes, if it's cooked properly." He cast a look of barely concealed disgust at the plate Sam offered him. The bacon was crisp but not too crisp, done perfectly. Vimes doubted whether he'd be able to finish it.

"What's the matter?" asked Merry (or was it Pippin?), watching his face closely. "Not like the bacon you're used to?"

"Sam's a great cook." Pippin (or Merry) added, through a stolen mouthful of bread.

"He knows that, Pippin. But maybe they cook bacon differently back in the Pisk." Frodo was clearly keen to keep the peace and avoid hurt to anyone's feelings. _Ah,_ Vimes thought, _the smallest one's Pippin. But what was the Pisk?_ he wondered, while hurriedly assuring the hobbits that the bacon was fine, just fine, and it was merely that they cooked bacon in a strange way back home – cultural, you know- no slight to Sam's cooking at all.

Legolas wandered up and stared at them for a while. They stared back. Legolas wandered away.

"Is he…" Merry began, wondering how to say this politely. "_normal? _Are… are all wood-elves like that?"

Merry was not the only one to wonder this. Vimes' fellow feeling with Legolas had quickly evaporated when he realised that the elf didn't seem to notice that the other elves considered him to be a representative from the immortal equivalent of the hillbilly (treebilly?) relations that you tried not to invite to Hogswatch. He didn't notice many other things, either, like whether people were talking to him, or (Vimes noticed after a shameful cooking incident which had further dragged Ankh-Morpork's good name in the mud, all because Vimes missed burnt crunchy sausages) whether the building was on fire. He'd even asked Erestor, another elf, whether an unfortunate accident had not happened to Legolas at a young age, such as being dropped on his head (possibly out of a tree). The pitying glance the elf sent Legolas told him everything.

"If he's a bit dim, why are they sending him on the quest then?"

"He has his uses," the other elf told Vimes conspiratorially. He thought for a bit. "Apparently," he added, for honesty's sake.

Similar thoughts were also crossing the hobbits' minds, but bacon and its appropriate method of cooking was of higher importance than the mental capacity of their travelling companions.

"How do you eat it, then?" Pippin asked.

"Burnt." Vimes told them firmly.

"_Burnt?" _

"With cold grease, and little black crunchy bits you can't identify."

"I'm sure I could give it a shot…" Sam said, his expression telling Vimes that Legolas was not the only one whose sanity was under doubt. "If that's really how they do it on the Piskworld…"

"I'll show you," said Vimes. Why should Sam cook for everyone? Finally, he could demonstrate that he did have useful, mysterious skills. He reached for the pan, but in his eagerness burnt his hand.

"Bloody _hell!"_

Across the clearing where they'd stopped, Aragorn sprang to his feet. "Are you injured?" he asked, his voice the finely tuned mix of concern and bravery that made Vimes want to be sick. Vimes began to splutter in protest but not before Aragorn could stride long-leggedly over to him.

"I will aid you," Aragorn insisted, taking Vimes' wrist.

"No, really, I just burnt my damn finger-" He tried to snatch his wrist back.

"Calm yourself, Samuel Vimes, I am well versed in the healing arts- "

"What arts would these be? Hygiene?" That was a low blow, but Aragorn was unruffled.

"Your courage aids no-one! None of us must travel while injured!" Aragorn – there was no other word for it- commanded. Vimes' forbears had snapped to attention at voices like that. Vimes just snapped.

"I'm _fine._ Leave me alone-

"It must be seen to-"

"-for Io's sake!"

"It may be poisoned-" 

"_I just burnt my damn finger!"_ Vimes snatched his hand back from Aragorn, glared at him, and then became aware of the fact he'd just indulged in a tug-of-war with enother grown man. And of the ringing silence all around them. Eventually, Gandalf coughed, and the others looked away.

_Well, at least that was some light entertainment for the rest of the Fellowship, _Vimes thought bitterly. He was doing so well.

Aragorn's Sense of Honour radiated from him in much the same way as his smell. In fact, it was hard to tell them apart. Somewhere in between the place where Aragorn's smell left off and his Sense of Honour began, Vimes supposed, there must be a personality somewhere. And that personality was not one that Vimes had taken to. Having been politely but firmly banned from cooking, Vimes had plenty of time to sit and analyse why this was.

Vimes knew that grounds existed on which he could be accused of bias against kings. He knew that Aragorn was a good man, a sort of policeman of the wilds, whom he could probably trust with his life. He knew there must be a good reason that Gandalf and Elrond had chosen him for the quest. He knew enough to trust Gandalf and Elrond (or at least, trust them to make illogical but noble decisions). But…

Maybe it was the posture. The posture didn't help. The general uprightness of Aragorn's figure set his teeth on edge. And, well, maybe Aragorn hadn't meant to be patronising when he'd offered to teach Vimes how to smoke a_ real_ pipe, instead of the 'attempt' Vimes was smoking. It wasn't Aragorn's fault, Vimes told himself, that they didn't know what cigars were here. But…

Vimes sighed, and tried to work out exactly where his dislike of Aragorn stemmed from. He hoped that it was not the mere fact of his royalty that had put him off. That would be too predictable. _Oh, Vimes._ they would say, _he hates royalty with a passion… not Aragorn's fault. _

He wanted it to be Aragorn's fault.

It wasn't that Aragorn was aggressively clean or anything. In fact, he smelt. But he smelt in a superior way to the way that normal people smelt. He smelt bad, but he smelt bad with style. He was practically sending out _eau de smug_ along with the wafts of rancid sweat and swamp mud that preceded him into rooms. _Yes, I smell_, he seemed to be saying, _because I'm a Ranger. I'm busy, ranging. But I don't have to smell this bad. I get away with smelling this bad because I'm the King. In disguise. _The disguise, in fact, drew attention to itself. Vimes knew he was being ridiculous, even as he thought these thoughts. But…

Vimes shook his head._ You're just looking for a reason to hate him._ He'd been trying to justify his aversion to Aragorn to his innermost self, but his innermost self was a cynical bastard, not unlike his outermost self, and was not having any of it. If it wasn't the Smell, what was it? As far as Vimes could tell, there were only two aspects to Aragorn's personality. If it wasn't the Smell, it must be the Sense of Honour.

Aragorn's Sense of Honour was in every line of his body. It was in the inflections of his speech, the way he inclined his head when listening, how he blew his nose. But it wasn't Aragorn's Sense of Honour that pissed Vimes off so much. Vimes had a sense of honour too. Admittedly, it wasn't worthy of capital letters, but it was there. It had stuck with Vimes through some bad times, and Vimes could generally rely on it. Sometimes, it even won. It annoyed Vimes that people thought he was without honour, just because he'd occasionally been known to knee a criminal in the region of his reproductive capabilities. That wasn't true at all- that was just common sense, survival. Vimes would never hurt someone- much- who wasn't immediately likely to hurt him back. Vimes was a policeman. His soul was never darker than a murky sort of grey.

Aragorn's soul was probably like some kind of precious metal: blindingly shiny, and likely to break your teeth if you bit it. Vimes wondered sourly if it went _gloinggg_ if you bounced metaphorical rocks off of it. OK, the symbolism could use some work.

Thankfully, Sam saw fit to interrupt Vimes from his sulk at this point. He presented him with a plate of streaky bacon with a hint of charcoal, and then watched anxiously for Vimes' reaction. It was a start.

* It was all a bit cissy really.


	4. Koom Valley and Character judgements

_So sorry about the delay (blame broken computers and backpacking). Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews, and happy Christmas! This chapter is more 'getting to know the characters'. We'll get to some action soon._

_Middle-Earth and its inhabitants are Tolkien's. Pratchett's creations are Pratchett's. I'm just mucking around with the works of much greater writers._

_xxxxxxxx_

Vimes wasn't the only one who occasionally had his doubts about the common sense of Elrond's decisions. Gandalf, too, considered them Noble but Stupid. For example, it was all very well getting idealistic and having a representative from each of Middle-Earth's free peoples in the Fellowship, but had Elrond thought what that meant in practice?

No, Gandalf concluded (as he leant sideways to avoid a small throwing axe), he had not. Elrond had not thought it through, because if he had, he would have arrived at the inescapable conclusion that it was a very bad idea.

"You see," Gandalf explained to Vimes, with whom he was sheltering behind a large rock, "Dwarves and elves don't really get along".

"I gathered," said Vimes, who had made his own observations, both on Gandalf's habit of understating the obvious and on the fact that Middle Earth dwarves had at least some things in common with their Discworld counterparts. Homicidal tendencies, for one. He winced. "That was a close one. Don't you think someone should put a stop to this?"

"Well..." Gandalf looked wistful for a moment, but then seemed to pull himself together. "You're right. We can't let them kill each other. It's only the second day of the quest." He stood suddenly and sent the two combatants a quick glower. They immediately dropped their weapons and stood ashamed.

"Besides, Ten Walkers has a certain ring to it. If we let them carry on, there'd only be nine walkers- maybe only eight- and who could take a Fellowship of nine seriously?" One fearsome eyebrow dipped in a wink. Vimes felt confused.

The thing is, he thought, Gimli and Legolas didn't really seem to hate each other. It was as if something deeper than their own respective personalities were driving their quarrels. Vimes was reminded of the Koom Valley situation in his home world. 'Koom Valley' was a rallying cry for both sides of an ancient battle which neither side could remember winning or losing. They only remembered that they needed revenge on those bastard trolls/dwarves.

Middle Earth was similar, although elves couldn't be more different from trolls (except in sheer pigheadedness, he was beginning to learn, in which elves and trolls seemed evenly matched and were equalled only by dwarves). Elves and dwarves couldn't remember why they were fighting. It was the differences between them rather than any real past injustice. Pathetic, really.

Was this hatred between two peoples something that sprung up organically in every community and dimension? Was it a sign that all sentient life needed to grow up and learn some tolerance towards those different from them? Or could it be that dwarves (the common factor) just pissed people off that much?

Vimes felt briefly nostalgic for the smell of cordite and singed beards that accompanied troll/dwarf conflict back home. He missed fireworks. At least he had experience making trolls and dwarves work together and Damn Well Stop Bickering back home. Inter-species friendships were forged in the Watch, and maybe Vimes could help forge them here.

Feeling briefly confident, he strode towards Gimli and Legolas. It was a shame he tripped over a hobbit before his peacekeeping career truly started. All his optimism vanished in the face of what became known as the Squashing of Pippin, which took a) much soothing of hobbits, b) much avoiding of hobbit wrath and c) much self-control in not punching Aragorn for snickering.

xxxxxx

A few days later, Vimes was trying to help Sam cook dinner. It wasn't easy as he had been made to promise that he would stay a full six inches from all cooking equipment at all times. It wasn't that he was such a bad cook, Vimes reflected bitterly as he passed Sam a carrot. He _wanted_ to burn the food, that was what nobody else understood. Sam did his best, bless him, but...

He missed his burnt crunchy bits. And he missed Sybil. And he missed little Sam. What if the time warp went wrong, and he was missing out on little Sam growing up?

At this, Vimes became both homesick and befuddled (too many little Sams!) and decided to stop thinking about home. He tried to interest himself in getting angry about Middle Earth's class system (because Sam did all the cooking) but couldn't find the energy. All this fresh air was quite knackering. Still, he was sure they'd reach Mordor tomorrow.

But if he had to eat one more perfectly-cooked sausage, well, he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions.

xxxxxx

Boromir had been watching Vimes with curiousity. He was short of natural allies in the Fellowship, distrusting everyone who wasn't a Man, and distrusting those who were trying to put their bums on a throne that had been quietly collecting dust for generations. That left Vimes. Boromir was lonely. He was used to being part of the soldiery, surrounded by other men to joke with. He had no one with whom to share manly Affectionate Punches. He had tried it with Aragorn, but Aragorn had made some snide comment like 'we future kings do not stoop to violence.' Aragorn was such a wimp.

Sadly, Vimes was clearly insane. He kept setting fire to things. That was a shame, as Boromir would have liked to get to know him despite the slightly dismissive way Vimes treated him. Boromir knew what he was thinking. 'More muscles than sense'; 'more patriotism than sense'; 'silly looking armour' . Skinny types always looked down on Boromir for being muscly, as if that meant he wasn't clever. And it wasn't his fault his armour was a bit silly looking.

Vimes was probably just jealous.

Boromir glanced at Vimes, to see if he could detect any jealousy, and instead caught Vimes gesturing wildly with a carrot to a distressed looking Sam. Sam had just cooked some sausages. They smelt good. Boromir changed Vimes from 'jealous' back to 'insane' in his mental filing system, and went to get some dinner.

xxxxxxx

Merry was exhausted. _Well, we all are_, he reminded himself. Except the big people, but they had twice the length of legs. He was glad for the rest, though it was still drizzling and he knew they'd be on the move again soon. He needed a rest, and a proper rest meant a smoke. He reached for his pipeweed and was pleasantly surprised by its weight. He had more left than he thought! That was a good thing, considering it was only the second day of their journey and Pippin was already making wheedling eyes at Merry's stash. Pippin hadn't learned how to ration his weed, and was burning through his quickly.

Pippin smoked too much.

Oh well, Merry wasn't prepared to share, yet. He would hold out til he needed someone to take his turn on watch, or an extra bit of blanket, and then Pippin would have to barter.

Merry smiled grimly, marshaling his resources. Pippin would find him a merciless trading partner. Merciless Merry, they'd call him. Pippin would never smoke all his share in one go (and then be sick) again. A brighter future awaited him.

Enjoying this vision, Merry rolled a few damp pipeweed leaves between his finger and thumb. Wait. What? Damp? Pipeweed shouldn't be damp!

Merry inspected his pipeweed supply and let out a little groan. That explained the extra weight.

"Pip..." he called. "May I have a little pipeweed? Mine got wet."

"No good," said Pippin mournfully. "I finished mine last night."

xxxxxxxx

"Sam..."

"Yes, Frodo?"

"_Why_ do you think they sent us this man from the Piskworld?"

Sam had no answer, except perhaps 'to distract you from your burden by exciting your curiousity'?

"It's very interesting, the process by which they sent him from their world to ours. I wonder what it is like..." and with that, Frodo was absorbed in puzzling out the strange journey Vimes must have taken, and wondering out loud about what the Pisk might look like.

Sam smiled, and went back to repacking his cooking gear.

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Aragorn was feeling pretty good. He was on watch, which made him feel important. He surveyed his subj- the Fellowship, and noted that no fewer than three of them were staring at him with expressions of barely contained fury. Never mind, he couldn't help that. He decided to go for a short stroll around his kingdo- their camping spot, and check its borders were secure.

Gandalf was smoking a pipe. Aragorn decided to join him.

"A peaceful night, old friend. There's nothing out there to threaten my Fellowship tonight."

Gandalf looked at him.

"I mean _the _Fellowship. Whatever."

xxxxxxxx

As a dwarf, Gimli could endure much. That was lucky, because this Fellowship was pretty near unendurable. Aside from anything else, that damn wood elf with the silly name had nearly killed him, just because Gimli had accidentally crept up behind him and sharpened his axe right by his ear.

It was annoying. He'd spent much of his life secretly hoping he'd get the chance to avenge the humiliation of his father and other relatives at the hands of Thranduil's folk. He was delighted to be selected for the Fellowship for this reason, and was looking forward to defeating both Sauron and the elves. As a child, he'd rather lumped them together. Elves and the Forces of Darkness were all part of the same morass of night fears, interchangeable enemies in daytime play. He'd matured somewhat since then, and no longer saw elves as something to be feared or vanquished. But a bit of humiliation would be good for them.

His father kept reminding him that they needed friendship between the free peoples if they were to defeat Sauron. Gloin had even felt it necessary to remind Gimli that the Fellowship was formed for reasons other than Gimli's desire to restore honour to his family. 'This whole thing isn't for your personal benefit, you know, son'.

'I know, dad. But...'_ But it all seemed to fit. Otherwise, why bother to send an elf along at all? Oh, of course, Elrond probably had a higher opinion of elves than Gimli did, but that bias was only to be expected. And to choose Thranduil's son- it was Destiny. Or something._

'And if I catch you teasing or beating up that poor... that poor, harmless elf, there will be _trouble_, understand?'

'I'm not going to hurt him, dad. It's not like he's an orc or anything. I just want to... to win'.

'You had better not do anything at all, except be civil and work together, and do your best to get along. With _every_ member of the Fellowship.' Gloin thought for a bit. 'Except for that madman from the Piskworld. Try and avoid him: he has a strange obsession with rats."

Despite Gloin's advice, Gimli had originally been rather insulted that Legolas didn't seem to be a worthy adversary. He knew that Elrond hadn't selected the wood elf with the specific aim of providing Gimli with a sparring partner, but still... Legolas had all the vicious cunning of a butterfly. How was Gimli meant to defeat him? And if all wood elves were as useless as Legolas, what did that say about Gloin and co, that they could be captured by a race of people who could lose an argument to a fir tree?

And then, just when Gimli had resolved himself to defeating only a rather sub-par enemy, Legolas was suddenly all speed and silence and flashing blades. Oh well, more glory to Gimli when he finally triumphed. Or maybe...

Maybe he should talk to him?

xxxxxxxxx

Legolas was happy: Sam was talking to him about plants.


	5. Babysitting

Thank you lovely reviewers! Thanks to everyone who's favourited this story, too. If you leave a review, I am more motivated to update, but it's lovely to know there's people out there reading this rubbish. Happy New Years! Happy Christmas! Happy January!

More 'Mentally Challenged!Legolas' as requested, Mr Stereo1.

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They reached what might be Hollin, but might be somewhere called Eregion, unless the two places were just two different names for the same place (Vimes couldn't work it out). Aragorn and Boromir immediately contradicted much of their boasting by leaping fearfully into a bush at the sight of a few birds.

Vimes was standing there, scorning them, when he became aware that the entire Fellowship were hissing at him in a strangled kind of way, and gesturing madly for him to get under cover as well.

'It's only birds,' he said, bewildered. 'Anyway, if they mess on you it's good luck.' But they seemed so insistent that he finally crawled into the undergrowth. Frodo was there, making mad faces at the ring he carried. 'Oh gods,' Vimes muttered in disgust, and backed out again.

He had just enough time to select a tree and settle under its branches when the crebain flew over. Merry, Pippin and Sam nodded at him. Vimes nodded back, then they carefully avoided each others' eyes, pretending not to hear Frodo making tortured noises from his own patch of undergrowth.

Frodo started muttering. Merry gave Sam a look. Sam looked innocently away until he thought Merry had given up. He then went back to his knitting, but Pippin joined in and he was rather less subtle. A muted cry of pain from Sam, a swearword or two and suddenly the cousins were glaring at Sam overtly, hands on their hips. 'Well, it's not _my_ turn,' Pippin was heard to say. Vimes was aware that complex hobbit social pressure was taking place around him, or more accurately, around his kneecaps.

'Oh_ fine!_' Sam finally burst out, and flinging his knitting to the ground he darted out from the shelter of their tree. Diving in besides Frodo, he grabbed him and hauled the ring away. 'There there, Frodo,' Sam comforted him, rolling his eyes discretely at the other hobbits. 'I'm always here for you, to do your gardening and cook your dinner.'

'Oh Sam!' Frodo cried.

'Poor Mr Frodo. You have a burden. It's very burdensome.'

Gandalf suddenly bent his head under the tree's branches. 'They have passed us, but there are many spies in these unfriendly lands.'

'I liked not their intent,' Boromir announced, pretending that he was picking twigs from his facial hair by coincidence, and not because he'd dived face first into a hedge.

'They are only birds, easily defeated. But I worry for... er... the Hob... Gimli,' Aragorn said, choosing the only member of the Fellowship who probably couldn't hear him. Gimli had gone calmly back to preparing dinner as soon as the birds had passed. He looked the least bothered by what had happened. Gandalf nodded gravely, then winked at Vimes.

'Indeed. We should move on while it is dark. I know I promised you a rest,' Gandalf said to a rather disgruntled Pippin, 'but I think these birds might be spies of Saruman.'

The hobbits nodded. Gandalf didn't feel they were fully appreciating the situation.

'Spies!' he repeated. 'Of Saruman!'

'Yesh, we ashumed they were someone's spies, or the Men wouldn't have panicked like that.' Merry pointed out reasonably, mouth full.

'Panicked?' Boromir spluttered.

'_I _didn't,' said Vimes.

'Yes, well, that's because you have no survival skills and don't take our imminent peril very seriously!' Aragorn said.

'Maybe when I see some imminent peril, I'll start-' Vimes retorted.

'We are _surrounded_ by it!' Boromir said, sweeping one arm dramatically, indicating a harmless tree, a butterfly, and Gimli peacefully peeling potatoes. Unfortunately, he also swept Gandalf's hat off, rather proving his point about imminent peril. Gandalf was a wizard, thus quick to anger.

'Anyway,' Vimes said, 'You said all the men panicked, but I didn't,' while pleas for mercy filled the background.

'Yes, but well, you see... we don't really think of you as a 'Man',' Sam explained.

It was Vimes' turn to splutter.

'No offence,' Pippin added quickly.

Walking by night was only made more annoying and difficult by the hobbits' relentless cheerfulness and Gimli's dwarven ability to see fairly well in the dark. Vimes was _used_ to walking by night, but he was not used, still not used, could never be used, to being outside the city. He didn't approve of the countryside even when it had farms on it and was clearly being used to produce milk and cabbages. He knew, theoretically, that the countryside was a crucial step in the mysterious process that brought Vimes bacon, but that didn't mean he had to _like_ the fact. The sooner they worked out how to remove the 'countryside' part of the equation, the better.

And this- all these rugged hills and dramatic mountain ranges, the silver, tumbling rivers, the peaceful woods - this was even worse. What was it all for? Where were the kebab takeaway carts? Where, in all this _outdoorness,_ could on get a decent cup of coffee? Or a newspaper to make him furious?

What, exactly, had they done with the bloody cobblestones?

Gimli cautiously engaged Vimes in conversation about the 'Piskworld' as they walked, and Vimes had the chance to know a little more about Middle Earth's dwarves and where they differed, or did not differ, from those he knew back home. This was made difficult by Gimli's reticence about certain things. He grudgingly told Vimes that the language of the dwarves in Middle Earth was a secret, and only a few place names (Khazad-Dhum, Kheled-zaram) were commonly known. Secrecy and reserve was clearly a trait shared by the dwarves of both worlds. But Vimes felt absurdly pleased that Gimli was prepared to give his sanity the benefit of the doubt and attempt friendship.

Middle Earth dwarves were quite a bit taller. Vimes didn't dare to broach the subject of dwarven gender, not yet. He explained about Koom Valley and the trolls, and Gimli expressed surprise that trolls were allowed into polite society. He was confused by Vimes' outrage, because trolls weren't even sentient. Vimes said that this was a common mistake induced by hot weather, and Gimli looked politely doubting. Gimli didn't give a very clear answer as to what had happened between elves and dwarves in Middle Earth to end the friendship between them, but he _was_ sure that it was all the elves' fault. He went on with relish to give an exaggerated account of the cruelty of Thranduil in imprisoning several of Gimli's uncles a few decades before.

It sounded like standard arrest procedure to Vimes, who thought there was a strong 'disturbing the peace' case against the dwarf's relatives. In Vimes' opinion, Thranduil could have saved himself a lot of future disapproval by charging the dwarves with 'looking at my officers funny', 'eyeballing my forest', or 'lingering with intent to be devoured by a spider'. As a police officer and therefore biased, he wasn't as impressed as he should have been by Gimli's acount of their daring escape, but he didn't tell Gimli that.

They were engrossed in conversation about mining (Vimes wanted to know if there were treacle mines in Middle Earth) when Legolas wandered up. They regarded him warily. He smiled at them. They looked at him. He smiled at them.

When he had wandered away again, Gimli asked, 'Do you think maybe he has some kind of devious plan?'

Vimes shook his head. 'No-one's that good at acting. But it would certainly be the perfect way to hide devious plans, if he was capable of forming them.'

xxxxxxx

They walked and walked. They walked. They found a campsite and walked past it because 'it's too accessible.' They walked. They found another campsite, one that met Aragorn's standards of inaccessibility. Unfortunately, they couldn't all access it.

'We have rather different standards of what 'accessible' means than you tall folk,' Frodo muttered. Thanks to Sam's earlier intervention, he was now acting more normal, and was hardly even twitching violently.

Legolas finally solved the problem by climbing a tree and refusing to come down. They camped at the base of the tree, and took turns to try to startle, persuade or shake him down to earth again. Vimes won by shouting, 'Look! A tree!', causing Legolas to come down to have a look.

'I don't see why the campsite has to be so inaccessible. There's nothing dangerous around the place,' said Vimes, who knew that some evil Dark Lord was hunting them, possibly even with Minions, but still hadn't quite adjusted to how things worked in Middle Earth (despite Vetinari's lectures) which made it hard to take the whole thing seriously.

And that was when he heard the howl. The howl that made his blood run cold while also reminding him that he had blood, spillable blood. A howl like that struck terror into the hearts of criminals chased by Sergeant Angua, but here, it meant something quite different. He'd been on the wrong side of a howl like that before.

'It's like bloody Uberwald out here.' He turned to Legolas, who was nearest him. 'Legolas,' he hissed. 'What was that?' He gestured helplessly towards the sound.

The elf's perfect brow wrinkled. 'A cloud?'

'Not _that._ That sound!'

'A warg?'

'Are they dangerous?'

'I can't remember.'

Talking to Legolas made Vimes' brain hurt.

'What are they?'

'What are what?'

'Wargs!'

'Where?' Legolas looked around him with mild interest. 'Oh, look. Wargs.'

Vimes made some very rude hand signs at Legolas. It didn't make him feel better, because Legolas just blinked at him, then happily wandered off. 'And I hope you fall over a cliff and your brain starts working!' Vimes shouted after him.

Legolas wandered happily all the way over to Gandalf, and repeated Vimes' hand gestures.

"Who taught you those?'

Legolas couldn't remember. He pointed vaguely at Boromir.

'Imminent peril!' Boromir was heard shouting soon after. He was up the tree recently vacated by Legolas.

'Er...' Pippin said. 'Did anyone hear that howl?'

It was at that moment that Merry knocked the saucepan into the fireplace, after reaching too enthusiastically for the mushrooms. The saucepan and some of the area around it caught fire.

It was the moment after that that Gimli tripped Aragorn up with the end of his axe. He swore it was an accident, even though he had been heard to mutter that he didn't know which incarnation of Aragorn he'd like to punch more, the ranger who knew everything or the king-in-waiting who knew everything.

It was the moment immediately following that, almost the same moment really, that Aragorn picked up the flaming saucepan and chased Gimli with it. Vimes had to fight down the impulse to offer to help 'heal' Aragorn's burns.

Next, Boromir fell out of the tree and landed on Frodo.

Frodo, hysterically, started screaming that Boromir had always been out to get him.

Gandalf turned on them all furiously. Horrible oaths and flecks of spittle were issuing from deep within his beard. His wizard's staff was blazing with fire, and the hairs on the back of Vimes' neck stood up at the immense and terrible power that radiated from the old man.

It was then that the wargs attacked.

All the Fellowship had to do, really, was get out of Gandalf's way. Later, Sam told Vimes he'd never been so relieved to see a warg.

'Well, you lot have had your fun,' Gandalf said, scowling at them all over the smoking warg carcasses. 'But now we're climbing Caradhras! None of you will have the energy for this - this nonsense.'

He strode off, cloak billowing. 'When I next see Elrond,' he growled, 'he will be _very sorry_ for landing me with _babysitting duty!_'


	6. Gandalf is Here

Hey everyone,

Many thanks to you all for the helpful and kind reviews! :D Also, feel free to skip the explanations below!

I've become aware that I haven't set a very consistent tone with this story- it's veering from parody to adventure and back. Sorry! I'll try to improve! The main problem's been lack of time and technical issues (RIP laptop) which has lead to me doing chapters in a rush, speed-writing when I had internet access BUT EVERYTHING IS BETTER NOW! YUSS.

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: _MC!Legolas is polarising my reviewers!

_So, I'll try to explain Legolas' character a bit better in this chapter. I was trying make Legolas funny without going for the obvious jokes (such as Prettyblond!Legolas). He's not intended to be stupid exactly, even if Vimes etc thinks so. He always struck me as a bit dreamy and strange in the books too (Legolas is basically Luna Lovegood, am I right? who agrees?) and Vimes' impressions of the characters aren't necessarily correct. _

_Also, this series is not meant to be too serious. I know Tolkien is serious and I agree with the reviewer who pointed out that Pratchett conveys some very serious points in his work. But I am not as talented (sadly) nor as serious (probably because I'm not as talented). _

Aargh, anyway enough of Legolas stealing all the screen time when he was meant to be a minor character and everyone knows that the _very best character of all_ is Merry!

STORY BEGINS

*some dialogue taken from _The Fellowship of the Ring_

They started up Caradhras with Gandalf still sending dark looks in their direction. 'Although to be fair,' Sam said quietly to Merry, 'most of what happened was simply bad luck.'

'Yes, we'd survived a couple of weeks in the wilderness _without_ setting anything on fire or falling out of a tree,' Merry agreed. He paused. 'Hmm... When you put it like that, it doesn't sound so impressive...'

Snow began falling before they'd gone very high. Soon, the wind began in real fury. It was bitterly cold and stung their exposed faces. Worse, its howling seemed to contain other sounds: strange, eerie voices that Vimes half-heard and hoped he imagined. It did not comfort him when Boromir mentioned the voices too.

Vimes was suddenly grateful for the light - but, he now realised, deceptively warm- cloak that Elrond had given him. He should make some notes for Vetinari. If they could get such cloaks in Ankh-Morpork, they could use them for the military- or, more likely, sell them at an inflated price to someone else's military. And then charge them interest.

He was certainly getting to understand politics.

Watching Aragorn and Boromir with the hobbits (what little he could see of them through the whirling flakes of snow), Vimes felt he may have judged them a little harshly. None of Aragorn's Sense of Destiny was in evidence as he helped Sam lead their pony, Whatsisname, through a snow drift, although sadly his Smell seemed to be permanent. Boromir, too, proved himself to be both caring and practical as conditions worsened. Vimes nobly forgave the Men for failing to be as arrogant and useless as he'd secretly believed them to be.

Vimes knew he didn't fully understand the nature and importance of their Quest, yet. Hells, he could hardly bring himself to think the word 'Quest' without wincing slightly. He still didn't feel much more than idle curiousity when he looked towards the thing round Frodo's neck. By Io, he hoped that wouldn't change. He'd seen the strange moods Frodo was drawn into. His growing obsession had at first been amusing to Vimes, but as Frodo looked more drained and Sam more anxious, it was becoming heartbreakingly obvious to Vimes that he had been underestimating the ring's malignant power and the damage this was wreaking on Frodo.

He hadn't been wrong when he feared Lord Rust-type behaviour. Lord Rust being dropped into Middle Earth was a terrifying thought.

But maybe, some of this sort of behaviour just _made sense_ in this world? This was what Vetinari had tried to tell him but it only made sense now, watching the two men toil in the snow. Their ridiculous, over the top Manliness and Nobility seemed to fit with the surroundings. What would have seemed out of place in Ankh-Morpork just seemed right, somehow, in these extreme settings.

Or would it be out of place in Vimes' city? Maybe even in Ankh-Morpork it would win friends and influence people. Vimes couldn't help himself, he was reminded of Carrot.

And this reminded him of home.

Merry, trudging beside Vimes and shaking with cold, looked up as if reading his thoughts. 'Get weather like this on the Pisk?' he asked, trying to sound cheery. The hobbit had his arm around Pippin, who was already struggling.

Vimes forced a chuckle, feeling suddenly glad he wasn't three and a half feet tall. He had his own problems, however. Maybe he shouldn't have insisted on cardboard boots? His feet were wet through. Damn stupid weather.

The snow was the wrong colour, as well. It was all white and shiny. Everyone knew snow should be mostly brown, yellow in patches, and hiding the occasional lump that turned out to be a dead dog. This snow was wrong. Why wasn't it criss-crossed with cart tracks and footprints until it was little more than slush?

If Vimes hadn't been so busy trying to follow Gandalf up a mountain, blink stinging snowflakes out of his eyes and not fall over, he might have felt quite homesick.

It was very, very cold.

A pile of snow jumped off the mountain and hit them all on the head.

'What the Hells? Did you see that? Damn snow jumped!' Vimes spluttered, when he'd coughed out most of the snow. He was almost glad of the distraction. An ache was growing deep within his chest. He told himself that the ache was due to being out of shape, but he knew on a deeper level it was the absence of his family, and his city he was feeling.

'This is no ordinary patch of bad weather!' Aragorn added.

They huddled under a snowy outcrop. 'If this is shelter, then one wall and no roof make a house,' Sam muttered. Vimes was inclined to agree with him.

Gandalf passed round a bottle of something he called 'miruvor'. Each took a sip. The hobbits perked up remarkably quickly, going from blue with cold and silent to making quiet jokes among themselves in seconds, but when the bottle reached Vimes, he hesitated.

'Er... this doesn't have anything alcoholic in it, by any chance?'

Gandalf sent Vimes a quizzical look. 'Why do you ask?'

'Er... I don't drink. Any more, that is. Er, got any coffee?'

Snow fell, sometimes almost horizontally. Being warm was a fuzzy memory that Vimes couldn't properly conjure up anymore. It was obvious that they were in serious trouble.

Boromir was clearly trying to bite down the words 'I told you so,' but eventually he said, 'There seems little choice now between fire and death,' which meant the same thing.

Gandalf agreed reluctantly, but then, nobody could get a fire lit. Sighing theatrically, Gandalf raised one of the pieces of wood that Boromir had insisted they carry with them, and spoke some strange words in a commanding tone. The wood burst into flame.

Muttering about how he'd as good as announced _Gandalf is here_ across half of Middle Earth, the old wizard nevertheless seemed as cheered by the fire as the rest.

Vimes found himself admiring Boromir's practicality and foresight, but only with the small part of his brain that wasn't focusing on the intense cold and the need to get as close to the small fire as possible. Usually suspicious of magic, he'd happily ignore all his qualms if his fingers could be less numb.

But the wood was burning fast, and still the snow fell.

'Dawn will find it hard pierce these clouds,' muttered Gimli an hour or so before sunrise. 'Thank you,' said Frodo to Gimli through gritted teeth, 'for your ceaseless optimism.'

Dawn came, and they were all alive to see it, but they also saw that the snow was piled many feet high around them and the path hidden. Only metres from the ashes of their fire, the way was impassable.

'Caradhras has more snow to fling at us yet,' Gimli added, with an air of grim satisfaction.

Pessimism, thought Vimes, was justified. How could you be expected to be a policeman on a mountaintop, when everyone was close to freezing to death? He'd love a coffee right now, but from Gandalf's earlier reaction, it seemed the existence of coffee was another thing they didn't have on Middle Earth.

They stopped when they could go no further. Boromir and Aragorn started trying to push their way through a huge drift of snow that was blocking their way. Vimes scanned the group to check that no-one had been lost in a snowdrift. Legolas was remarkably fresh, and not as snow-sodden as the others. For once, he was not dreamy and vague, and he even spoke to Boromir and Aragorn.

Unfortunately, whatever he said made them so annoyed that Vimes half-expected to see steam rising from them. That would have been useful. Then they could have melted a path through the snow.

'He can walk on snow,' Gimli said, catching Vimes' look of surprise. 'Haven't you noticed?'

Vimes joined the others in sending Legolas jealous, threatening glares. Legolas volunteered to go and scout beyond the massive snowdrift, and disappeared hastily.

While they waited for the three to return, Vimes asked Gandalf a few things.

'Gandalf? if it's not rude to ask, why did they send Legolas with us?'

'Whatever do you mean?'

"It's just, he doesn't seem to be... all there.'

'Elves can sleep even as they walk in the waking world, Vimes. So sometimes he may seem a bit dreamy, yes. Is that what you mean?'

Vimes pondered this. Maybe it explained some of the elf's vague behaviour, but it added a whole new perspective for Vimes to worry about it.

In fact, he felt personally insulted. He thought sleeping while standing up was a police officer thing. He'd got it down to a fine art. Indeed, Vimes had been rather proud of the contribution he could make to the group when it was his turn to stand watch on dark, rainy nights (or slightly less dark, rainy afternoons).

To Vimes, that was the essence of policing. He'd spent much of his working life standing watch while rain dripped down his neck and nose. He could exist in a state of half-sleep, whiling away the hours, and had surprised one or two criminals that way. One had even graffiti'd 'Tonks luvs RL 4-eva' on his face, and Vimes had just stood very still, allowing her to continue writing in order to gather evidence of the crime of defacing public property. Vimes could stand _still_.

And he could sleep standing up. He could also half-sleep, and do without sleep for longer than was reasonable. Vimes had made various deals with Sleep over the years, negotiating delayed repayments, wrestling Sleep's borders into new shapes. They'd never be friends, but Vimes thought he could get away with not-sleeping or almost-sleeping better than anyone else.

How dare Legolas steal his party trick? And, by the sounds of things, completely out-do Vimes.

But it wasn't just that. Vimes dropped his voice to a whisper. He didn't want to embarrass Legolas.

'It's not just that. He also... er... he... well, he _talks to trees.'_

'Yes.'

Maybe Gandalf didn't quite hear him?

'Talks. To _trees._ And listens to them, too. I'm not joking. I've seen him.'

Gandalf chuckled. 'You don't know much about wood-elves, do you?'

Apparently not. Vimes started getting seriously worried. No-one talked to trees! Why did Gandalf seem to think it was normal? Vimes distrusted trees. He knew little about them, and he intended to keep it that way. The only trees he'd had much to do with were the stunted, half-charred stumps in Sybil's garden, the ones the dragons sometimes set fire to. Other trees were associated with terrifying memories of fleeing werewolves in Uberwald.

Yet people talked to them? Would it expose his city-dweller ignorance if he expressed surprise at this? Maybe _everyone_ talked to trees? Was he expected to talk to trees, too? But he'd never noticed any of the other members of the Fellowship trying to make conversation with a larch or joke with a juniper. He kept his face politely blank.

'Elves aren't just humans with pointy ears, you know.' Gandalf continued, attempting to knock his pipe out on a snowdrift.

'Elrond and his folk seemed fairly normal to me. Well, they had a tendency to giggle, but apart from that... at least they seemed to be awake.'

'Yes, but they're used to mortals. Elrond's half-mortal, they get lots of mortal visitors. But many elves, being immortal, live on a different time scale to what you are used to. So they can take a bit of ... adapting. Legolas is in his own world half the time because Mirkwood doesn't get many mortal visitors. There, it's less joyful singing and more... man-eating spiders.'

'So, all wood-elves are like this?' Vimes asked, making a mental note never to visit Mirkwood.

"Well, Legolas is a bit of a hippy, but more or less.'

Legolas returned at that point, and Boromir and Aragorn stomped back from pushing their way through snow, practically glowing with Manliness. Aragorn leant in to join their conversation: "It goes like this: Rivendell elves are quite like humans, with the added annoying habit of having meetings all day and singing all night."

"I shall tell Arwen you said that," Gandalf smiled. Aragorn ignored him, and continued his lecture.

"Mirkwood elves - that's Legolas- prefer trees to mortals. They don't trust anybody, and day dream all the time except when they're sending an arrow through your ear at forty paces.'

'That only happened once,' Legolas said, 'and your scar hardly even shows.'

Aragorn settled himself next to Gandalf and continued. 'Lothlorien elves are even weirder.' he continued. 'They've got an even nastier sense of humour than Thranduil's folk, _and_ they think they're superior to everybody else.' He smiled smugly. 'I think that about sums it up."

Gandalf also allowed a small smile to appear briefly before vanishing back into his beard. "Aragorn is broadly correct. I only hope we don't have to meet any Lorien elves on this trip. Galadriel is _deliberately _difficult to deal with. And the last time I spoke to her... well... unfortunately, we both have immortal memories.'

'So there's thingydell elves, and then tree-huggers?'

Legolas scowled at Vimes, then got up and left. Aragorn and Gandalf looked horrified.

'Vimes,' Gandalf said gently. 'Tree-hugger is an extremely elfist term.'

'Sorry.' said Vimes. This was all so hard to take in! He'd finally just about got a grip on having a multicultural police force. He'd even learned not say, 'I'll be back shortly' when a dwarf officer was around. Now he had to learn new rules.

'And what of dwarves?' he asked Aragorn, capitalising on the man's talkative mood.

'Dwarves are-' Barely two metres away from him, Gimli shifted, and started to sharpen his axe meaningfully.

'- fine fellows. I wouldn't hear a word said against them,' Aragorn continued, barely missing a beat. Vimes was impressed. The man would make a fine King.

'And Gondorians?'

Aragorn drew himself up proudly. 'Gondorians are an ancient and noble race, descended from-' but Vimes did not hear; he was too distracted by Gandalf's impressive eye-rolling. Why did Gandalf draw attention to his eyes? Truly, the wizard had the most impressive eyebrows Vimes had ever seen. They fascinated him.

'It's just difficult for me,' he explained, when Aragorn had stopped talking. 'I know nothing about Gondorians, Middle Earth's dwarves, or elves. Back home...dwarves are in some ways completely different, and in some ways exactly the same. I don't always know which. And elves aren't the good guys.'

Gandalf tried to reassure Vimes. 'You can trust the Fellowship with your life,' he said. 'Even if Legolas doesn't always seem hugely alert, he'll be the first to know if orcs attack. And every elf, dwarf and man in the group will be very useful if we have to deal with Orcs.

Vimes did not like the sound of the word 'orc'. He glanced at Legolas who was now humming to himself, seemingly oblivious to the freezing drama of his surroundings.

'Right,' Vimes said uncertainly. 'That's good to know.'


	7. Moria!

_Hey everyone, thanks for the reviews. Yay! Moria! Action!_

_I don't own or profit from Tolkien or Pratchett's work. Some dialogue from FOTR._

_Moria_ was the first time Vimes felt he really understood the danger that they faced on the Quest. They weren't even there yet- he still wasn't sure exactly what, or where, Moria was, or why it was a bad place to be- but just the sound of the word, and the others' reactions to it, was enough to grip him with unease.

Hours later, when they stumbled past a rank-smelling pool and halted by massive stone walls, Vimes felt even more strongly that Moria was not a place he wanted to be. Gimli (who no longer seemed to regard Vimes as completely insane, but rather with the wary amusement given to an eccentric neighbour who takes his flowerpot for walkies) had been telling him that Moria was a kind of ancient dwarf stronghold, a city. Perhaps it was drawing close to a city again that had caused Vimes' policeman's instinct to stir slightly in the pit of his soul, and let Vimes know that now was a good time to be investigating a nice, safe pub on the other side of town.

But of course, _dammit_, that was not how the Watch did things any more...

Vimes suspected that Aragorn and Boromir regarded him as a man without honour. This was partly because he refused to smoke pipes, and partly because he'd demonstrated some of Nobby's street-fighting moves to the hobbits.(1) They were probably of a similar weight to Nobby, after all. Perhaps he shouldn't have shown them the Morris Dancers' Revenge. Aragorn had definitely disapproved of that one. Oh well. Too late now. He hoped Orcs weren't an endangered species. They soon would be, by the time their next generation came into existence- or didn't.

Oh well, the move wasn't fatal. And from what the others had said, the Orcs were pretty nasty.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Vimes _wasn't_ a man without honour, Right now though, staring at those immense cliffs, he really wished he was. He didn't know what was wrong with him. He'd been in dwarf mines before, even dwarf mines that had gone badly wrong, and he was scared now before he'd even set foot in there.

It was something about the dark... Not the dark of the night and of the streets, with which Vimes had made uneasy peace, but the dark of the mines, where night and day could not be distinguished, and things lurked, lurkishly.

He wanted to run away, and he didn't even know why. Gandalf muttered something and the clouds withdrew. The moonlight picked out shining runes on the stone's surface. Vimes wanted to run away even more.

The rest of the Fellowship seemed similarly struck, arrayed around Gandalf with expressions of fear or awe on their face, or in Gimli's case, misty-eyed anticipation. Actually, that wasn't true. Legolas was nodding happily at something he seemed to think a rock had just told him. Pippin was-

'Pippin!'

'Sorry,' said Pippin guiltily, over the splash of the pebble he'd just chucked in the pool. Vimes noticed Merry quickly dropping a stone of his own.

And that was the only distraction there was for quite some time. The expressions of awe and fear became muted as the night wore on, until eventually there was nothing but boredom in the faces of the Fellowship. They slouched on uncomfortable rocks and moaned behind Gandalf's back, while Sam unloaded Whatsisname the pony so he could have a rest, and Aragorn offered Vimes some tobacco because it still fascinated him that Vimes would only smoke cigars.

Elrond was immortal. He had survived terrible battles, seen Gil-Galad fall and Sauron half-destroyed, only to rise again. He'd faced loss, and fear, and conversed as a matter of habit with some of the wisest and most powerful beings still on Middle Earth. He had this trick with his eyebrows that was really _impressive_, even Glorfindel shut up when he used it. Yet talking to Vetinari... it left him with a strange mix of feelings, that he only experience rarely... what did it remind him of?

Ah, yes. Talking to his mother-in-law.

In fact, talking to either Vetinari or Galadriel almost reduced him to a state very similar to the half-forgotten occasion in his childhood when he'd had to explain to his parents how he'd set his twin on fire. He felt ashamed, small and intimidated all at once, a hot muddle of feelings that would have left him tongue-tied and flustered if he'd not had centuries' experience hiding his emotions and being dignified.

Yes, talking to Vetinari - Elrond flinched discretely - talking to Vetinari was intimidating.

Elrond wondered idly what would happen if Vetinari and Galadriel ever met face-to-face, and flinched again, even more discretely this time in case one of them could somehow see him.

He had an appointment to discuss the Quest with Vetinari in a few minute's time, and Vetinari would not be exactly pleased that Elrond had lost track of where the Fellowship was. It wasn't his fault they'd got covered with snow up Caradhras! Only a fool like Gandalf would have led them up there in midwinter.

Elrond wondered exactly how far he could push the old 'they-have-passed-into-darkness-and-shadow-hides-my-sight...' routine. Not very far, he decided.

At least, he reflected, the Fellowship would have no reason to enter Lothlorien... Vetinari's look of mild surprise was bad enough, but facing Galadriel's 'understanding voice' as well... (2) that would be immortally unfair.

For these reasons, Elrond's psychic nerves were frayed when Vetinari finally made contact, a careful three minutes late.

'My Lord Vetinari,' Elrond inclined his head gracefully. 'I trust Ankh-Morpork and your terrier are both well?'

'To which terrier do you refer?' Vimes said, allowing himself a small smile. 'Wuffles continues well. I had, however, thought to ask _you_ whether Vimes was well. ' He paused, and considered Elrond thoughtfully. 'Of course, if you don't _know_ how Vimes is getting on...'

And almost before he knew it, Elrond was stumbling over sentences in his haste to fill Vetinari in on everything he knew, and did not know, about the quest.

When he had finished, Vetinari remained silent, and Elrond realised he hadn't finished after all.

'Vetinari, do you think it is altogether wise to continue using a palantir to communicate?' Elrond was questioning Vetinari more out of a need to fill the terrible silence rather than a conscious death-wish, but it rather amounted to the same thing.

"There are rumours that certain of the Seeing Stones may be under the control of the Dark Lord...'

'I am aware,' Vetinari said coolly.

'But-'

'Don't let me detain you, my Lord Elrond.' Elrond heard him call 'enter' to someone out of his line of sight, and Vetinari's next interviewee entered his study. A portly man from the Guild of Butchers and Sweetmeats began giving Vetinari an extremely boring report of taxes gathered on imported sausage skins, and Elrond ended the connection, as usual, in a haze of embarrassment, relief and annoyance.

Vimes fell into a half-doze, which was a policeman's trick, and was woken by a creaking, grinding sound He sprang from sleep to upright-and-fighting and lashed out with a fist, accidentally hitting Whatsisname. 'Sorry,' said Vimes, blinking, 'Was still asleep', then realised he was talking to a pony. The pony whickered (3) reproachfully, and galloped suddenly away from the walls, back the way the Fellowship had come.

Sam cried out in distress and leapt for the reins, but missed. Aragorn stopped him from going any further. 'Vimes is right, Sam,' he said gently. 'The mines are no place for a pony.'

'Bill!' Sam wailed. Oh, _that's_ what his name was, Vimes thought, through his guilt.

'Sorry, Sam- it was an accident- ' Vimes said. Sam sniffed, then managed a shrug to tell Vimes he was OK, but Vimes could see tear tracks on the hobbit's grimy face.

Aragorn turned to Vimes majestically. Vimes braced himself for a lecture, but all Aragorn said was 'I know you did that while Sam wasn't looking because you thought it would be too painful for him, but I think you should have given him time to say goodbye. These hobbits are made of sterner stuff then you think.'

'I know,' said Vimes, surprised that Aragorn had noticed too. 'Sorry. Fancy a cigar?'

'No time!' said Aragorn in his urgent tone. For a second Vimes thought something terrible was happening, but then he saw the rest of the Fellowship had finished gathering their packs and were cautiously stepping through the huge doorways that had somehow opened into the rock. 'We have to get going.'

'Yes, it is a four-day journey to the other side,' Gandalf called from within.

'Oh good,' said Vimes. And _then _something terrible happened.

Shortly after their conversation, a malevolent eye appeared in the Palantir that Vetinari kept in his study. It blazed furiously, filling the glass orb with crimson flames that surrounded a cat's eye pupil, as dark as the flames around it were bright. Vetinari looked at it politely until it went away.

(1) All right, Nobby's folk dancing moves. But they were far more lethal in street fights.

(2) "I am not angry, Elrond, merely _sorrowful_...Sorrowful that you have brought about the downfall of Lorien and indirectly let evil enter my woods... I don't blame _you_, not at all," and so on...

(3)Or one of those horsey sounds


	8. The Mines Are No Place For a Policeman

Thank you for the reviews, and sorry about the formatting last time- I don't understand technology :(

On a sidenote: We've had a huge earthquake in Christchurch, NZ yesterday; if anyone out there wants to help you can donate through the Red Cross.

**ViME 8: The Mines Are No Place for a Policeman**

'Something terrible is happening!' said Legolas. Vimes was never sure if he said it before or after the giant tentacles rose from the dark pool and plunged towards Frodo, knocking the other hobbits flying. If he said it before, that was impressive. If after, it was a bit obvious.

Anyway, Vimes heard the cry and spun round to see what the terrible thing was.

There's a harmonic you learn to recognise with screams. There's the scream of a man who's trapped his fingers in a chest of drawers, the scream of a toddler confronted with bedtime (Vimes winced, remembering those years when even 'Where's My Cow?' had been met with yells of outrage from Young Sam), and then there's the scream of someone in mortal peril. Such as one might scream if, for example, a giant tentacled monstrosity had suddenly seized them by the ankle.

As a policeman, Vimes had honed his ability to distinguish between screams. He knew forty-seven varieties of scream. He knew them all, from the relatively rare, 'there's a wasp up my nostril!' to the much more common, 'drunkenly outmanoeuvred by my own doorstep'.

But you didn't need to be an expert to know this one. This scream was pure fear. 'I'm about to be devoured in graphic detail!' was a scream that even amateurs could recognise. This example was surprisingly loud for such a small hobbit.

Part of Vimes sprung into action immediately, and it cursed at the part of Vimes that was observing the scene detachedly. Watching-Vimes watched Action-Vimes fall on the giant tentacle nearest him.

He was so angry. That was what it was. Fury was driving him, so fear could huddle in the back seat and vomit out the window. Fury was in control. Otherwise Vimes would never have done what he did next.

Maybe it was because he'd been thinking of Young Sam. Maybe he just felt sorry for Frodo, who already looked exhausted (and slightly deranged) from carrying the ring. Maybe he was just grumpy after the snow of Caradhras and lack of decent coffee.

He tried to arrest the creature.

'Assault!' he bellowed. 'Assault, and intent to commit grievous bodily harm if I'm any judge!'

Why? he thought, listening to himself. Why? I was angry enough to bite through the damn thing, and I go and try and arrest it?

He pulled his truncheon out of his sword belt, and then tried to disentangle his handcuffs from his pocket with the same hand. He was dimly aware of the zip of arrows overhead, shouts of pain and challenge, and then a small shape, falling into the arms of Boromir.

'Into the mines!' he heard a voice say, and people were rushing past him. Meanwhile, he was wrestling to get his handcuffs around the slimy tentacle. A huge shape was rising slowly from the pool, injured but still terrible. It opened its maw (and it was definitely a maw. Nothing with that much teeth was a mere mouth).

'Vimes!" Boromir screamed at him. He recognised that scream too. It was a scream he'd screamed himself. It was a scream that said 'Stop being a bloody fool! If you don't come to safety now I'll kill you myself!'

Fair enough, thought Vimes and he wrenched his handcuffs back and ran for it. Frodo was safe, after all. Time to employ the ancient police art of running away.

Boromir grabbed his arm and they ran together through the ancient stone doors. The tentacled thing flailed at them, causing a small rockslide over the entrance of the mines. They would never be able to get out again now.

'Convenient', said Vimes, when his breathing had calmed and his chest was no longer hurting as much. 'Now what?'

'We have no choice, but to face the long dark of Moria.' said Gandalf, with what sounded a little too much like grim satisfaction. Aragorn swore under his breath.

'Does anyone... er... anyone feel that this is a little _too _inevitable?' Vimes asked. Maybe the Gods of Middle Earth were a bit like the Gods of the Disc: playing games with the lives of mortals and not even bothering to keep to the rulebook. But no-one answered.

Boromir was still beside Vimes. 'I saw what you did, back there,' he said. 'You acted with great courage. I admit I was unsure about you at first, but I now I am proud to fight alongside you: you are a true warrior.'

Oh dear, thought Vimes muzzily. I am brave and stupid after all. He grinned weakly at Boromir.

"I shouldn't have tried to arrest the thing." he said. "It's a creature. It's like arresting the owner of a dangerous dog. The dog itself hasn't got the mens rea."

"I only understood about half of that,' Boromir said. "But didn't you notice how that thing went straight for Frodo? If that thing was sentient, surely it is culpable.'

'Neverthless, I am relieved you did not arrest the thing. Imagine the difficulties in keeping the Watcher in the Water in police custody?" Gandalf broke in, with what looked like a wink, unless his caterpillar-eyebrows were simply spasming.

xxxxxxxx

Drumknott was polishing his favourite pencil sharpener when Vetinari appeared noiselessly in front of him carrying a stack of ancient scrolls.

'Drumknott, I wish you to look up descriptions of a place called 'Moria' in these.'

Drumknott did so. Then he came to report back. If he had not had the emotional range of a damp spoon, he might have been rather distressed.

'My lord, my Elvish is rusty and this is probably foolish nonsense but apparently the place is... dangerous somehow. Cursed.'

'How interesting,' Vetinari said. 'We must keep a close eye on developments.'

xxxxxxxxxx

It was unlike any dwarf mine Vimes had seen.

He expected the doorway to be guarded. At the very least, the huge rockfall over the entrance should have brought dwarves hurrying to the site of damage. They didn't leave their mines unrepaired for long.

There was no neat tunnelling, no mine signs, no duty dwarves taking anxious note of outsiders, no-one taking messages to the mine's king. No sound of devices whirring, no water being pumped, no hammers...

No dwarf would have let goblin bones pile up like that, or let the place get damp and dank. Moisture damaged the stone, they said, and got in the machinery. Worse, the mine _felt_ bad. Vimes could smell rot, and that wasn't right, not in a dwarf mine. They were obsessively clean in their workplaces (even if not in their taverns). There was no sign of neat industry, no carefully-ordered extractions ready to be carted away. Nothing.

But, if Vimes listened hard, he could hear a faint knocking, somewhere deeper under the earth than he cared to imagine.

'Agi Hammerthief,' he muttered under his breath, and Gimli gave him a curious look.

So Vimes knew that there were no dwarves left alive in Moria long before they found the bodies.

xxxx

There was a sticky moment or two along the way. Gandalf forgot where they were going, and tried to cover it up with bluster and proverbs he'd made up on the spot, a trick Vimes recognised from his dealings with the wizards of Unseen University (although Ridcully himself was always refreshingly frank). They also had to leap over a six-foot wide gap in the narrow ledge they were walking along. Vimes, watching Pippin try and summon up enough courage to make the jump, was again unhappy that hobbits had been chosen for this task. Narratively fitting, he thought bitterly, but bloody unfair.

As if he knew what he was thinking, Pippin leapt the gap and turned immediately to grin cheerily at Vimes.

'Nothing I can't handle!'

xxx

Vimes had lost count of the hours they'd been underground when they reached a room with a well in the centre. His policeman's instincts had been working overtime, sniffing the air and preparing for the worst, so he wasn't overly surprised that the stone slab in the centre of the room was the tomb of the leader of the dwarves they'd been hoping to find. At least, Gimli had been hoping. Vimes noticed Gandalf exchange a heavy look with Aragorn: he clearly wasn't the only member of the Fellowship who'd been a little pessimistic about this whole Moria thing.

Decades of policing had made Vimes incredibly observant. Decades of being incredibly observant occasionally made Vimes wish for blissful ignorance.

The corpses were the worst part. Dwarf corpses looked particularly horrible when semi-mummified. It was something about the beards.

He felt awkward watching Gimli grief, again something he'd had to witness repeatedly as a policeman. This was a part of his job he'd never got used to. Gandalf wrested a book from the hands of one skeleton, with a nasty crunching sound that put Vimes off ever eating celery again.

Scrawled on the cover in the dark stain of old blood was a mine-sign Vimes didn't recognise. It looked something like a flame, with something like a whip curving around it. It looked almost like a stylised version of some kind of creature, but he couldn't tell whether it had wings or not.

'Back home,' Vimes said, 'the dwarves draw signs like this as a kind of outlet for whatever's going on in the mine. I've never seen one like this. What does it mean?'

Gimli answered, swallowing hard to get his voice under control.

'This is a very old sign, very old indeed. I've only seen it in old writings, but its meaning was lost in Moria's long dark, long before my time. Perhaps Gandalf knows what it means?'

Gandalf said nothing, but he looked troubled.

Everyone rested on the cold stone floor, setting their blankets down as far from the well as possible. Vimes felt restless, despite his exhaustion. The well was horrible: he wished he could post Carrot or Cheery, someone reliable and used to underground life, to keep an eye on the well. He wished Angua was there, to guide them through the mines with a nose that was untroubled by darkness.

He wished Pippin hadn't just dropped a stone down that damn well.

'Pippin,' sighed Frodo, 'I do wish you hadn't dropped a stone down that well.'

Maybe, thought Vimes, he had more in common with the rest of the Fellowship than he realised.

xxx


	9. Airspeed Velocity of an Unladen Balrog

Hey everyone,

Sorry for the delay and thank you for the reviews. I'm back at uni :(

(And I FINALLY started reading The Silmarillion (you know, for some 'light' reading). All I can say is, for all those times when I read a bit of Fanfiction and thought 'Werewolves? People's hands getting bitten off? Curses? Creepy love interests? No, no, this is too far-fetched..." I'm sorry for doubting your canon-ness.

Also, Feanor is a dick.)

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Vimes was standing in the Low King's mines, listening to the knockermen. Then Carrot appeared and gave him a reproachful look.

'What is it, Carrot?'

'Sir, all you're thinking about is treacle.'

Vimes was about to protest that the treacle had never been further from his mind, but the knocking drowned him out. It grew louder, and Carrot started jabbing him in the shoulder, shouting 'Vimes! Vimes!'

XXXX

Vimes woke up; his dream dissipated. Frodo was urgently shaking him awake. 'Vimes! Oh thank Eru. Listen - they are coming.'

'They?' asked Vimes, springing to his feet dramatically. _They_ were never good news. There were so many possibilities about who they were, for one thing.

The rest of the company had their weapons drawn, and were facing the double doors through which they'd entered hours earlier. Someone had tried to wedge them shut with a couple of axes. Footsteps and harsh calls were audible. It was clear by the volume that whatever was out there wasn't going to be stopped by those doors for long.

'That doesn't sound very good. Anything more specific to tell me?'

Frodo shrugged, wide-eyed in the gloom (or maybe it was just his usual expression, it was hard to tell). 'Orcs, I think. At least Sting's glowing, so that probably means Orcs.'

'Sting? Orcs? Glowing? Frodo, are you all right?' Vimes frowned at the hobbit, wondering which one of them was the mad one. Then memory dawned. 'Oh, Orcs... i remember being told about them. Look, don't worry, they probably just want to talk.'

People started hammering on the doors. No, not hammering - hacking and slicing away at the wood.

Vimes found himself at the back of the room with the hobbits. The other members of the Fellowship were standing in front of them in various heroic poses. Vimes felt he should insist he didn't need protection, and that he should be right up the front too, but then he decided he could always complain afterwards.

If they survived. The battle cries outside were bloodcurdling. He wished his butler were there.

Vimes turned to Sam who was standing next to him, clutching a hobbit-sized sword. 'Look, ' he said to Sam. 'Having a sword you don't know how to use is actually more dangerous than not having a sword at all - people will attack you if they see you holding a sword!'

Sam gave him a measured look. 'If it's all the same to you, Mister Vimes, I think I'll hold on to my sword. I don't think being unarmed is going to stop them from trying to kill us.'

'Do they have Orcs on the Pisk?' Pippin asked. He was shaking slightly, but Vimes could tell, despite the danger, he really wanted to know.

'Shouldn't you be concentrating?' hissed Merry. 'Remember what Boromir tried to show you?' And as an afterthought, 'What are Pisk Orcs like?'

Suddenly a huge bellow sounded from outside, and a massive cave troll burst through the doors. 'Stay back!' Vimes shouted. 'Trolls can't digest organic life forms, but a lot of them don't know that!'

He rushed forward, desperately trying to assemble his basic trollish into a coherent sentence. From the pattern of lichen growing on it, he judged it was probably female. He wasn't sure though, and he didn't want to offend it - better address it in gender-neutral terms for now.

'Grrargh? Grrea'arrgh ahoorgrah?'

The troll did not reply.

Goblins poured through after the troll, slashing and hacking and being slashed and hacked in return. There were far too many to arrest. Vimes was dimly aware that the Orcs were giving him a wide berth. Anyone mad enough to challenge a cave troll was someone to be avoided.

The troll gave him a dull look. There was no spark of intelligence in the depths of its crusty eyes. It raised a hammer to make Vimes into a Sam sandwich. He darted out of the way.

'Watch out!' Vimes warned the company, who carried on ignoring him. 'It's too warm here, the troll won't be thinking properly!' He hefted his sword, then decided his truncheon was a better bet. A cry of pain distracted him.

It was Sam. He wasn't hurt, but he'd just seen Frodo getting skewered by a massive Orc, and he didn't look happy. Worse, a second Orc, nearly as big, had also noticed Sam's distress and had clearly decided it was a good time to attack.

The Orc leapt, sword outstretched. Vimes truncheoned its fingers Orc dropped its sword, then went briefly cross-eyed as Vimes kicked it in a dastardly fashion. It started to bend double, but then it met the Vimes elbow. All went dark.

Three of its fellow Orcs waved their swords menacingly and advanced on Vimes. It wasn't a fair fight at all. All he had to do was keep out of their way and throw a couple of punches into the mix. Excellent, thought Vimes happily, and stepped back to watch - right into the path of yet another Orc. They're everywhere! he thought, desperately ducking a blade that would have beheaded him (1).

There was a terrible _Glooiiiinnnngggg! _sound and Vimes' attacker was felled by an invisible foe. Well, by a hobbit. 'Nice work with the saucepan, Sam', said Vimes, by way of thanks, 'but I really wish my butler were here.'

xxxxxx

'Elrond?'

Elrond sighed. These days he couldn't get an hour's peace without someone exasperating demanding his attention.

'What is it this time, Erestor?'

'Er... we've had a message, Lord. From Saruman.'

'Saruman? That bastard! What does he want?'

'Er... he says to tell you to stop messing around with people from the Discworld. Says it's flung the whole of space-time-narrative into chaos, sir. Says we've picked the wrong person to join the quest, your Half-elvenness. And that his Orcs are on strike.'

'The space-time... what? On strike? What does that mean?'

'He doesn't know, your Elfship. That's just what their signs say. 'We're on strike', and 'Slaughtering rights for hardworking Orcs'. I can't make head nor tail of it either.'

'Oh, Valar,' groaned Elrond. 'I'm going to have to talk to Vetinari again.'

But it was Galadriel who was waiting to talk to him. 'What,' she demanded, 'are you playing at?' The rippling effect of the waters of her fountain did not make her frown any more terrifying, because nothing could. It didn't make it less terrifying, either.

'Well,' Elrond blustered, 'We- er- that is to say, _Gandalf_ suggested-'

'Stop blithering,' she snapped. She peered into his eyes for a few seconds. Elrond resisted the urge to shut them.

'Hmmm...' she said. 'Oh, really?' She peered a little longer. 'I see.. ' Her eyes unfocused momentarily, and then her gaze stopped penetrating the depths of his mind and became merely uncomfortably sharp.

'Right,' she said. 'Where is Gandalf? Bloody fool's strayed into shadow again. I can't keep tabs on him when he does this! I'm beginning to suspect he does this sort of thing on _purpose_.' She gave him a stern look. She was good at those.

'Er.. what exactly is going on?' Elrond asked, timidly.

'Anti-narrativium,' she answered brusquely. 'Orcs on strike will only be the start of it, you'll see. I can't believe Vetinari is merely a mortal. That reminds me - we're playing Thud, and it's my move. I'd better send his wizards a message.' She smiled for a second. 'I haven't played a game in Ages against someone who's my equal. It's so nice to find someone who provides a bit of a challenge for once! Gandalf cheats.'

'Er...' said Elrond again. Then he broke off, insulted. He'd played chess with Galadriel only a couple of centuries ago. At the time, he'd suspected she was bored, and now he knew for sure.

'Anyway, run along,' she said. 'You young ones must have something to do to keep yourselves occupied. When I was your age, I made my own entertainment!'

xxxx

Vimes was thrilled Frodo was alive. But he couldn't shake a sense that everything was a little too neat. Hidden armour? The thought persisted as they ran desperately through the mines, their pursuers brandishing horribly sharp-edged weapons.

Gimli had to be dragged away by Legolas: he hadn't wanted to leave Balin's tomb, despite the danger. 'But the intricately carved runes!' they heard him wail. 'It may be my only chance to examine the craftdwarfship!' Hearing Gimli's mourning, the rest of the Fellowship shook their heads in sorrow and pity.

They ran, tall people pulling the short people along. Lots of Orcs chased them. Vimes was good at running, but he wasn't as young as he was. Nonetheless, he'd die if he had to slow down now. Literally.

Gimli barely had time to appreciate the incredible stonework and engineering they were racing through when fire flared behind them. Long tongues of flame shot out of the shadows and lit the caverns with a hellish glow.

Gandalf shouted something about not being able to hold... something. Glancing back over his shoulder, Vimes saw a terrible creature emerging from the darkness. It was huge, seemingly made of shadow and flame, and whirling a fiery whip around its head. Eyes glowed like a rather nasty volcano God. It looked a little like a Golem emerging from a fire, but with none of a Golem's cuddliness. It also looked a little like the mine sign scrawled back by Balin's tomb.

'A balrog,' said Gandalf.

'Hey, that was my line!' said Legolas.

'A demon fro- What?'

'Oh, nothing. Just felt a bit confused... '

'This is a foe beyond any of you!' Gandalf continued, deciding to ignore the interruption. 'Run!'

Vimes thought that was the best advice he'd heard all day.

They came to a narrow bridge and raced across it. Except for Gandalf. 'We're nearly out of the caves', Aragorn yelled, looking back across the terrible chasm where Gandalf stood alone.

Come on!' shouted Vimes, clutching his stitch. 'That thing won't be able to cross the bridge- we just keep going, and it'll fall to its doom all by itself!'

Aragorn looked as if he was about to agree, but then Gandalf's voice cut in. 'You shall not pass!' he shouted, his sword blazing white in answer to the balrog's fiery challenge. He smote the bridge with his staff, and the bridge cracked asunder. The balrog fell. So did Gandalf.

Vimes caught Aragorn's eye, and they both shrugged. 'Let's go,' said Legolas. Vimes was sure he caught Gimli muttering something about a 'silly old fool'. Boromir grabbed Frodo, who wanted to run to Gandalf's aid.

They ran out of the caves, into the light. Grief (mixed with exasperation) took over.

'That was totally unnecessary,' Boromir said, wiping tears away discretely.

'Sad, but foolish,' Aragorn agreed. 'After all, it's not as if balrogs have wings.'

'They do have wings!' said Merry. 'I mean, I doubt that thing would have got enough lift to fly in such a narrow space, but Gandalf probably didn't realise that - he went to stop it so it wouldn't fly at us. Poor Gandalf,' he added, sniffing. 'I always loved his fireworks.'

'I didn't see any wings,' said Legolas. 'But then, there was a lot of shadow! And flame!'

'They are definitely wingless,' Aragorn said firmly. 'Merry probably just thought he'd seen wings. It was probably just the whip.'

Boromir snorted. 'Of course they have wings! Everyone knows that.'

'Oh yes?' said Pippin. 'Fought one, have you? Sorry, Merry,' he added, borrowing Merry's handkerchief so he could wipe his eyes. 'I'm with Aragorn on this one. No wings.'

'We all just saw one with our own eyes!' Gimli broke in. 'How is it that none of us saw whether it was winged or not?'

'I was a little preoccupied!' said Sam. 'I was caring for Frodo, and also I got a nasty cut in that fight back there!'

'Anyway, we're short. We didn't get a very good view,' said Pippin.

'I was emotionally distraught!' said Aragorn. 'Mithrandir is an old friend!'

'Oh, but not too emotionally distraught to start this argument in the first place!'

'I'm _still_ emotionally distraught!' cried Frodo.

'It's a moot point,' said Legolas. 'Even if they did have wings, I think Merry's right. The balrog wouldn't have been able to fly across the chasm in that narrow space. It's simple physics.' He looked around loftily, as if he'd proved his point, then said 'Oh, look! A butterfly.'

'They'd have to have a massive wingspan to lift that much bulk,' said Aragorn in an argumentative tone. 'Totally impractical for a cave-dweller.'

'Well, let's work this out logically, shall we?' said Gimli. 'It's a few simple calculations. We need to factor in velocity, how much weight the balrog was carrying - that whip looked heavy - and then work out whether there would be enough space for it to fly.'

'It's a simple question, I agree.' Boromir at each of the Fellowship in turn. 'What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen balrog?'

'And,' said Merry, 'Did Gandalf have to break the bridge like that, or was his sacrifice foolish and unnecessary?'

'Er,' said Vimes. 'When you've all finished, I've fried some bacon. I thought you'd all be a bit upset and need a meal before we run again.' He moved the frying pan off the fire and waved it at them. 'You know,' he added, 'from the rest of those Orcs.'

XXX

Gandalf woke from oblivion. Light pierced his eyes. What had happened? Why was he so cold? He'd... he remembered fighting a balrog, at the roots of a mountain he'd wrestled with it... had he died?

The light above him began to separate into distinct shapes as his eyes got used to it.

'Ah,' said a robust voice. 'Our visiting lecturer has arrived! Now I want you chaps to give him a rousing Faculty welcome!'

(1) Ironically, giving Vimes' ancestor's head-chopping.


	10. Vimes Starts Getting the Hang of Things

Hi everyone,

Happy 2012/Year of the Dragon

First of all, I don't own anything of Tolkien's or Pratchett's work!

Second, many apologies- it's been so long since I've updated I practically forgot my own (user)name. Sorry! But I now have an internet-connected computer again.

Thanks to everyone still reading/reviewing. You're wonderful. Many of my reviewers have very funny and clever suggestions as well.

I'm not always proud of this piece cos it's very uneven. I have a Grand Plan in mind, though…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

...

Dread filled Gandalf even before he properly opened his eyes. He knew that voice. The cousin of an old acquaintance. They'd got drunk one night years ago after a particularly rural game of cards and made an arrangement which he never though he'd have to regret.

If he was ever passing by the curious flat world where Ridcully lived, he'd visit his Universilly. Or whatever it was called.

He regretted it now. The man was so disgustingly hearty.

Gandalf groaned again. Being dead felt like a massive hangover. Another feeling he rather associated with Ridcully.

'Hello, Ridcully,' he muttered. Then he raised himself onto his skinny elbows and looked at his surroundings.

A bicker of wizards (1) surrounded him, peering over the plump spheres of their ample bellies. There was a chorus of muttering, embarrassed throat clearing, contradiction and interruptions. One or two 'hellos' and the odd 'welcome' were nearly obscured by a squeaky-voiced wizard insisting that the newcomer was 'quite the wrong shape, and can't be a wizard at all'.

'Traditionally,' said one of the fatter wizards hopefully, 'we welcome new faculty members with a feast...'

The mutterings became much more enthusiastic in tone. There was a noise like elephants on the move, and Gandalf was left blinking and alone except for Ridcully and a pale, skinny looking wizard with large glasses. Ridcully grabbed Gandalf's hand and used it to haul him to his feet while simultaneously giving him a handshake that would have crushed the bones of lesser folk.

'Gandalf, old chap!' Ridcully boomed. 'Welcome to my little establishment! Sorry about the lads, useless pillocks the lot of them. Let me show you to your room. We're having sardines and stuffed peacock around four o' clock, light snack doncherknow.'

Gandalf drew himself up to his full, impressive height and glared at Ridcully with eyes like slightly murderous sapphires.

'Thank you,' he said. 'I'm sure I can manage,'

'What was it that got you, then? Nasty thing with too many legs? Spell backfire?'

'I was inconvenienced,' said Gandalf shortly, 'by a Balrog.'

'You get all sorts from the Dungeon Dimension. Something about the handkerchief of reality, or so the clever buggers at the High Energy Building tell me.'

'The _fabric_,' muttered the pale wizard, as if this was an argument he'd long given up on. 'The fabric of reality.'

'Right, right,' said Ridcully. 'Anyway, Gandalf old chap, here's your key- be careful of the wardrobe, don't know whether the last wizard is still in there or not- and here's my spare robe.' Ridcully winked.

'I have my own robes,' said Gandalf. 'I am Gandalf the grey, not Gandalf the tartan-and-sequinned. Why would I need to borrow yours?'

'The fabric of reality,' said Ridcully, a smirk hiding in his beard. 'It doesn't travel well.'

Gandalf looked down. 'Oh,' he said. 'I _thought _it was rather cold.'

XXXXXXXX

...

'Three,'

'Yes, your Patricianness, sir,' the butcher twisted his hat nervously in his hands. It wasn't _his _fault about the baker. Nor the candle-stick maker. Nor that the three little pigs he'd made into sausages and bacon had given his customers indigestion.

_'Three. _Again.'

Vetinari stared out the window, fingers steepled, at the poisonous seething mass some people called a city.

'It has backfired,' he said quietly. 'It's working _too _well. All right, Mr Spit, please don't let me keep you.' The butcher was only too pleased to leave.

Vetinari sighed. That was the third interference this week. And they still needed to do something about that spinning straw into gold racket... the farmers were angry, and the local gold market was flooded. Prices were falling, and he had to sort it out. If only he knew the spinning fellow's name!

Perhaps it was a … mistake… to have sent Vimes off-world. He very rarely made mistakes.

'Drumknott.' The clerk materialised quietly beside him, notebook in hand.

'News?' Vetinari asked.

'Well, your Vetinariness, from Galadriel's latest- slightly miffed- missive, it seems you were correct in your hypothesis that Vimes would have a rather chaotic influence on Middle Earth.'

'Yes, yes. It can't be helped. I'm sure Middle Earth will right itself when he returns home. But more importantly, Drumknott, is what's happening here. Have you noticed?'

The clerk hated it when Vetinari sprung fiddly questions on him. 'The Watch are cleaner, your Grace? It's Carrot, sir, he mildly expects them to polish-"

'No,' said Vetinari. 'Disc has always been subject to narrativium, as you know. But Vimes... Vimes seems to have a moderating influence on narrative forces. We sent him to Middle Earth, Middle Earth goes haywire. Characters, as it were, start acting out of character. Quoting obscure texts on the flight of balrogs. Plot continuity has gone out the window. Whole months pass and nothing is... shall we say, updated. Vimes is countering the very structure of Middle Earth's narrative-bound existence, like cheap whiskey counters sobriety. He's a force against narrativium'

'But we expected that, didn't we, your Lordship? And In the long run, it's what they need.'

'Yes. But in adding Vimes' influence to Middle Earth, we removed it from the Disc. And that means...'

'If Vimes isn't here,' said Drumknott slowly and without emotion, 'then the Discworld changes?'

'Precisely,' said Vetinari precisely. 'We will revert, as it were, to an un-Vimed state. I'm starting to worry that Vimes is the only reason we don't have some dragon-slaying yokel with a sword and a princess running Ankh-Morpork. Vimes is the counter-narrative. And I've just sent him to Middle Earth!'

'Will we bring him back, my lord?'

'We must. Or we'll have a King next,' Vetinari did not shudder. No trace of concern or disgust showed on his face. But he frowned slightly. Drumknott saw this, and went pale.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

...

'Havelock? HAVELOCK! What the hell are you playing at? I've got serious warriors reduced to babbling nonsense, Thranduil's son is off chasing _butterflies_, and Gandalf has disappeared! Again! That policemortal of yours? Very. Bad. Influence.'

Vetinari almost sighed. He had the utmost respect for Galadriel, but he knew what really annoyed her was not being able to subtly manipulate the 'fates' of those she met.

'Everything's so unpredictable, and I am _displeased._'

'Yes, my lady, I am dealing with the situation,' said Vetinari enigmatically. Storylines, he thought to himself. Everything's getting disrupted. 'Good evening.'

Then, with a wave of his hand, he changed the Palantir's channel. He had to go and see a man about a talking frog.

'My lord,' said Drumknott, appearing at his elbow again. 'What are you going to do?'

'Bring Vimes home,' said Vetinari, '_When _he secures the treacle.'

...

The nine remaining members of the Fellowship raced toward a blur on the horizon. Apparently it was Lothlorien, some kind of forest. Vimes didn't like the sound of it. It probably had trees in it, and who knew what. You'd have to be barking up the wrong tree to want to go into a place like that.

Ha.

They got closer. Suddenly, the blur became distinct trees, behind which a golden wood stretched for miles. Knowing the way this place worked, thought Vimes moodily, it was probably enchanted.

They walked under the shade of the trees, after splashing through a nondescript trickle of water that Aragorn stopped to rhapsody about. Vimes didn't really listen. He was more concerned with the cardboard of his boots fragmenting soggily.

They hadn't gone for when a voice that reminded Vimes strongly of Lord Rust sounded from somewhere in the trees. It had a ring of haughtiness and command, but to Vimes it was completely unintelligible.

'Oh,' said Aragorn, frostily. 'Haldir. How pleasant to see you.'

'I thought I smelt mortals,' the voice said, 'with emphasis on the smell'. A sneering, golden-haired elf stepped out of the trees. He had a longbow aimed right at Gimli. Several other elves, similarly armed, followed him. 'Oh dear,' he said. 'Not a _dwarf. _And these... what, exactly, are these?' He cast a disdainful eye over the hobbits, and, apparently deciding that none of them posed a threat, laid his bow aside. The other elves, however, remained ready to shoot. Haldir glanced at Legolas. 'Oh,' he said dismissively. 'Mirkwood.' He looked at Boromir next, and shook his head in contempt. Then he examined Vimes, and an expression of puzzlement which he almost managed to conceal crossed his smooth face. Next he idly examined his nails. 'I think you should leave the forest before you get it dirty. And if you go quickly, I _m__ight_ tell my guards not to riddle you with arrows as you go.'

Aragorn assumed a posture even more upright and noble than the one he normally had. Vimes half-expected to hear vertebrae snapping to attention. Then Aragorn began to talk earnestly in Elvish, then angrily as Haldir merely smirked and smoothed his cloak. Usually Aragorn's noble behaviour annoyed the hells out of Vimes, but for once he found he was siding with Aragorn. Haldir had achieved the extremely rare feat of uniting the Fellowship. Previously only blind terror had done it.

It soon became clear that the argument would continue for a while. With a shrug, Sam got a frying pan out of his pack. Merry lit a small fire, scandalising the nearby elves. Frodo sat and muttered. Pippin wandered off (followed by bow-wielding elves, whom he ignored) and returned with several mushrooms that had a faint golden sheen.

'The golden mushrooms of Lothlorien!' Legolas crooned. 'If it only it were spring, so we could see their silver spots glowing!'

Pippin shrugged and handed them to Merry. He sliced them carefully and placed them in the pan with a twist of salt and herbs that Sam had managed to carry through Moria intact. Vimes wandered over. The mushrooms smelt good. 'Here,' he said. 'Use some of this goose-grease I use on my boots to fry them.' He wouldn't need it anymore, he thought. He glanced down at his boots, which now resembled ankle-guards, and shrugged ruefully. Frodo muttered some more. Boromir went to snap some twigs for the fire, and hurriedly changed his mind, so that the elves would change _t__heir _mind about turning him into a pincushion. Gimli started smoking, causing the elf nearest him to sneeze so violently that he nearly put an arrow through his own foot.

Finally Aragorn stepped away from Haldir, fuming.

'We can pass through Lorien,' he said, 'but we have to wear blindfolds! My Fellowship! This is a calculated insult to me- er, us.'

'Let me talk to him,' said Vimes.

He strolled up to Haldir, and lit a cigar by striking a match on a tree. 'Speak er- westron?'

'Unfortunately.'

'Evening, then' said Vimes.

Haldir stared down his nose at him. 'A star shines on the hour of our meeting,' he said stiffly.

Vimes glanced up. 'Does it? That's nice. Don't know how you can tell what with all the leaves in the way, of course…'

'What do you want?'

'This blindfolding business. It makes sense, of course. Very ingenious. Very intelligent.' Haldir preened slightly. 'Just checking I got all the details right. You and your warriors will go blindfolded, and the Fellowship will accompany you?'

'Yes- I – what?'

'Good plan,' said Vimes, nodding seriously. 'That way, we'll be too busy making sure you lot aren't tripping over to run away or do anything treacherous.'

'Er…'

"\And without you guiding us, we'd get completely lost, wouldn't we? Which is what you want, isn't it? We'll never learn the secret ways of your forest, because we'll be wandering around all over the bloody place. Because you won't be able to guide us. Very clever.'

'But I don't-'

'What? You don't _want _us to learn the secret ways, do you?'

'No, of course not, but-'

'Good man! I mean elf. Fine military mind you have there. I could use an elf like you in the City Watch. You'd fit right in. Genius strategy. The City Watch needs men! Be a man in the City Watch!'

Vimes saluted. Haldir saluted back. 'And,' said Vimes, winking, 'Aragorn has _no idea _what you're planning! You've fooled him marvellously.'

Haldir nodded, and turned and shouted in elvish at his guards, who leapt to puzzled attention.

Vimes strolled back to the hobbits to accept a plate of mushrooms. Maybe he was getting the hang of this place.

'Here, how do you spell 'equity'? Grk'sh asked Uglunker.

'Dunno,' said Uglunker, shrugging.

'What you put on your placard, then?'

Uglunker proudly displayed it. 'FAIR WAGES FOR HARD WORKING ORCS.'

Grk'sh examined it critically. 'Hmmm. You could do something with a bit more … I dunno… a bit more interesting?'

'Like what?'

'I dunno, something catchy. Something rhyming, or a pun. Something… something _snappy.'_

Uglunker considered this for a moment. 'How about this?'he said, scribbling something hastily. The placard now read 'PAY US OR WE'LL BITE YOU.'

'That's good,' said Grk'sh. 'Nice and direct.'

(1) A bicker is the correct plural term for wizards, but some modern dictionaries make an argument for the term 'a gluttony'. There is no plural term for witches.


	11. Galadriel Gets a Headache

Oh, this story. I don't even know. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. Super-long update to make up for it.

All of the humour or plot I manage to scrape together is really thanks to the much more wonderful writing of Pratchett, Tolkien and any random author who happens to wander near enough to be ripped off. I don't claim to own anything they've created.

Thank you so much for reading!

Thank you so much to those of you who have written encouraging reviews – especially those of you who have nudged me to update.

XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX

The Fellowship did, indeed, get lost. And that was fine, because Orcs weren't chasing them. The scowling, occasionally swearing troop of blindfolded elves tried to follow them, tripping over into streams and each other, and experiencing blundering for the first time in their long lives. Eventually, Aragorn took pity on them – Haldir wasn't _their _fault – and told them they could probably remove the blindfolds now because the Fellowship was well and truly lost.

They reached Caras Galadhon, amidst the mellorn trees, and Vimes felt something he'd never felt in response to trees before. He felt... no, it was ridiculous, they were just woody bits with leafy bits on top… but they were pretty. Yes, these trees were all right. He patted one on its silver bark as he passed it. An elegant, silvery stairway curved above their heads into the canopy. Lights seemed to float down to meet them. It was like walking in a dream. He breathed in the pleasant, leafy smell (he couldn't be any more specific than that).

Vimes still missed the smell of fried rat, but… maybe… maybe this would do for now.

Then they began climbing. _Trees, fine_, Vimes thought as he puffed upwards, _but these stairs were too much_. Haldir stopped to enforce a View upon them. 'Admire,' he said, 'the heart of Elvendom on Middle Earth…'

The hobbits nodded politely, though their view was blocked by another tree. Gimli seemed more interested in the mechanics of the stairway's construction, and was heard to mutter keenly about 'mine shafts' and 'back-up for elevator failures.' Vimes caught Boromir's eye, and instead of looking at the view they took the opportunity to roll their eyes behind Haldir's back and catch their breath. Aragorn looked somewhat misty-eyed; Vimes thought it best not to enquire why. Legolas said something in Elvish, which caused Haldir to look puzzled, then somewhat miffed as he realised that Legolas was talking to a tree, and not him. Realising these were the only reactions he was going to get, Haldir marched upwards, shoulders set.

Reflecting on how much of a mystery he sometimes still found the Fellowship, Vimes re-shouldered his pack and started climbing after him. The view – _yes, it is rather stunning,_ he thought, beginning the next spiral. Despite himself, his gaze travelled out through the woods. A singing began from high above them, softly, without fanfare, as if it had been going a long time and Vimes had only just become aware of it or strayed within earshot. It was as if he'd woken up, or fallen asleep, perhaps.

'A lament for Gandalf,' someone said softly.

The singing and the evening light falling through the branches did something odd to Vimes. His breath caught a little, and his eyes moistened. _Allergies,_ he told himself firmly.

It wasn't like he missed Gandalf, anyway.

XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX

_It wasn't like he missed Middle Earth, anyway,_ Gandalf told himself firmly. He hastily smothered a cough – what did they put in Discworld pipeweed? Tar? – and returned to the matter at hand. He needed an excuse to leave, before the earwax he'd cultivated since the Second Age began to melt at the sheer volume of Ridcully's heartiness.

Considering he'd died a few hours ago, Gandalf had had a productive morning. He'd paced nervously, lectured a gaggle of students on the impertinence of hobbits, discovered and been disappointed by Discworld pipeweed, corrected Ponder Stibbons' ideas about space-time, thought angry thoughts about Balrogs, thought angry thoughts about Galadriel (and hastily revoked them, just in case), and winkled a cup of tea out of a passing manservant.

Now, however, he found himself wedged in an armchair in Ridcully's study, where worries about Frodo and the rest kept sneaking into his mind. Funny, he'd been so confident about the damn Balrog before they entered Moria, because he was not the sort to cower before his fate. He hadn't been afraid for himself at all. It was only now he realised how reckless he'd been.

There was no way they'd possibly survive without him.

Ridcully patted him on the back, causing Gandalf's pipe to shoot across the room and shatter a whisky decanter. 'Takes some adjusting to, this stuff! This is real man's tobaccy. You wouldn't get this in your Middle World!' he said.

Gandalf sniffed gingerly at the pipeweed once again. If this was for mere mortals, surely he, an Istari, could handle it? He sighed. He felt uncharacteristically downcast, and very far from home.

'Worried about your Middle place?' Ridcully asked, eyes twinkling knowingly.

'Preposterous,' Gandalf muttered. 'They'll never even reach Lorien.'

Ridcully nodded understandingly. 'Tell me about these hobbits again.'

Usually, Gandalf spoke only in wise but vague statements, because he was Mysterious. But Mysterious wizard gibberish had to be founded on a credible reputation, or people just laughed at you. Sometimes (Gandalf winced, remembering an undignified episode in the Second Age) the ones who were particularly unconvinced threw vegetables at your hat.

Nobody on the Disc knew who he was. They would assume he was just another Unseen University wizard. If they even deserved the name. Until he found out what sort of standing Disc wizards had, whether they had _respect_, there would be no point doing his Mysterious Act. People would just ask him to explain himself, or worse, get bored and move their attention elsewhere.

Suddenly, Gandalf felt lonely.

Ridcully was the nearest thing to an Istari in this place. He would not be impressed by Gandalf's vague statements, but at least he might be able to hold a decent conversation. He noticed Ridcully was still waiting for him to speak.

Maybe… maybe he should _confide _in Ridcully?

Gandalf didn't often confide in people. It wasn't really his thing. Sometimes he pretended to confide in Elrond, bless his little heart, so that Elrond felt included. He had confided in Thranduil once, but Thranduil had advised him that his problem was all the fault of dwarves. Gandalf had called Thranduil a blatant Dwarf –hater. Thranduil had laughed at Gandalf's beard and made a tree drop squirrels on him.

Sometimes Gandalf confided in Bilbo, but that didn't count because what goes on Quest stays on Quest. He thought he'd maybe confided in Aragorn once, but they'd drunk a lot of ale that night so he wasn't sure if it _was _Aragorn, or just a bar stool that smelt similar.

Galadriel didn't wait for you to confide in her.

He'd stopped confiding in Saruman after that nasty incident with the Tower.

Maybe he _should _confide in Ridcully.

'It's the hobbits,' he said. 'I miss them,'

That wasn't what he meant to say at all! 'I mean,' he added quickly, 'I'm worried about them.'

'What's wrong with 'em?'

'They… they're so small, but you shouldn't under-estimate them!' Gandalf said, more to himself than Ridcully. 'You think they've gone for good, but they have a knack for surviving tight spots, you know.'

'Fierce?'

'They're fierce when cornered. Even the fattest, timidest hobbit has a spark in him that-'

'Good eatin'?'

'Oh, yes, very good at eating. Why, I once knew a Bolger who managed three lard-cakes in one sitting…' His eyes went misty at the memory.

'So,' said Ridcully, 'how do you hunt 'em?'

'I'm sorry?' said Gandalf, snapping out of his reverie.

'D'you use a cross-bow? Or do you use the double-twin ultra-cross bow?'

Gandalf glared at Ridcully. Back on Middle-Earth, rumour had it that Gandalf's eyes had once been two ice-diamonds carved from a glacier, and his eyebrows the fur cloaks of two angry giants. He knew the rumours; he'd started them himself, and invented ice-diamonds, which was poetic twaddle. But even his famous glare was not enough to quell Ridcully, whose own eyes gleamed back speculatively.

'How big do they grow, these hobbits?'

'Three foot six on average,' said Gandalf. 'But-'

'Like a rabbit, or are they more like a hare? Could we send _weasels _after them, or is there a special kind of hobbit hound?'

Gandalf spluttered.

He needed to have a serious talk with Radagast about his cousin.

XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX

The Fellowship stood before Galadriel. Celeborn, her husband unfortunately, was drivelling slowly through his second sentence, while she'd already skipped ahead of the introductions and counted the company.

Nine.

Not ten.

Nine.

_Come on, Celeborn, hurry up. _

'He's fallen into shadow,' she snapped.

Celeborn floundered to a stop in the middle of the word 'Rivendell.'

'Sorry?'

'Gandalf. He's fallen into shadow.'

'Oh,' Celeborn said, momentarily non-plussed. 'Was it… was it fatal?'

'Fairly,' she said. 'Now, eye-contact, please, everyone. Not you, Celeborn! The Fellowship!'

x O xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx x

Sam's mind, or soul, was as honest and true as any could be. It reminded her of the new shoot of a green plant in Spring, finding the light, a root that could quietly crack stone. She smiled.

He seemed quite a nice chap.

Frodo – she thought he'd be frail, a snowflake you couldn't save, and indeed there was the touch of darkness that would weaken him in years to come. _Shoddy work, Elrond,_ she thought. But there was strength there too, strength that surprised her. She thought of water: a clear spring, a deep pool, a stream running downhill, finding its way around obstacles. He'd keep on going, she was sure of that.

Merry was amused. This surprised her. Yes, he was. He knew what she was doing and was wryly amused by it. He was sharp, that one. And he… apples? He was thinking about apples? Right. And toast. Now he was thinking about toast. Was he trying to trick her? Hide a secret from her? She concentrated. No, he genuinely wanted some toast. Damn it, now she also wanted toast! She cleared the thoughts of toast from her mind. _Who _was Merry? That's what she wanted to know. He was a friend. He cared about his friends. He was going to carry on with this Quest no matter what because it was the right thing to do and because it was Frodo's. And there was courage there. Still new, but he was becoming more aware of it.

Pippin was thinking about apples too! What was this? What _were _hobbits? Was this some kind of conspiracy? Who could stand here before her, Galadriel, in the Heart of Elvendom on Middle Earth (as that twerp Haldir called it) and think about apples?

She was getting a headache.

She saw immediately she didn't have to worry about Pippin yet either. Another one driven by hope, and friendship, and all those things Gandalf kept going on about. Pippin was curious; half his mind was on what would happen to the platform among the trees if a storm came, how they built it, whether he could find someone who would answer his questions, whether there were elf teenagers, whether Galadriel was wearing a wig (impertinent!), whether there would be a meal soon, whether the meal would be vegetarian, whether Lothlorien elves had second breakfast, whether they would have to sleep in a tree.

And he was so young, and he missed Gandalf terribly.

The thoughts of all four of the hobbits turned constantly to each other, to the Shire, to their companions, to the loss of Gandalf, to open admiration of the beauty of Lothlorien. She decided she liked hobbits.

She delved quickly into Aragorn's mind and just as quickly out again. Her face went bright red, and he met her eyes and went bright red as well. Her granddaughter! Really! She gave him a couple of seconds to clear his mind, and looked again.

Nobility. Purity. Courage. Goodness. Really, Aragorn was so predictable. She was pleased though, if she were to be honest. Her great-children would be well-cared for. She wondered if she should tell Elrond to give it up: Now he was claiming he was having 'visions' in which things went the way _he _wanted them to go, for a change.

Sad, really.

Boromir was similar in some ways. But where Aragorn was steady, Boromir had a seething resentment that shifted like smoke so that his true character was in and out of focus. And there was love here, for his city, for his people. Where Aragorn was wary and somewhat distant, Boromir was marked by warmth and protectiveness, especially for the hobbits. But so much doubt.

He wanted to do the right thing, but he hadn't yet realised that he couldn't separate the fate of his city from the fate of all of Middle Earth.

And what was this… winter is coming? What? Well, obviously. And summer, autumn and spring. Every year in fact. A blur of cycling seasons, and they never varied. Boring. She'd seen thousands - hundreds of thousands of winters. What was so special about winter? What was he talking about?

Legolas' was just: Trees. Fine, she expected that. She wondered what, if any, thoughts were going on underneath, hidden from her. A mix of botany, grudges, unflattering thoughts about the Noldor and dwarf-baiting, probably.

The first time she tried to read Thranduil's mind, she'd woken up half an hour later with a headache, surrounded by acorns. Maybe Legolas was adopted? Anyway, he wouldn't steal the ring anytime soon. Unless it turned into a tree.

Gimli's was a revelation. Dwarves… these strange little creatures, and yet there were whole worlds inside their tiny, hairy skulls. Impressed, she looked closer. She sifted through layers of familial pride, recipes for rat casserole, _thousands _of carefully filed types of ore, beard-grooming tips and warrior-gusto (men in all species were the same). It was so orderly! So different from an elf's or a man's, yet still rational and sentient and capable of emotion. At the moment it was mostly curiosity, grief at Gandalf's fall, a touch of nerves, awe. And he… he actually wasn't doing this quest for gold!

e...

Oh, she knew thisin theory of course. Gandalf was always rabbiting on about it. 'Dwarves are sentient blah blah blah…' 'Their beards aren't funny blah blah blah…' Well, he _would _say that. But until now, she'd never fully realised.

Gimli would kill and die for Frodo, she saw. And under everything was a connection forged of fire, rock and iron, a connection to the Mountains. Home.

So, dwarves understood something she'd thought was very elvish. The longing for home.

It wasn't every day that Galadriel learnt something new.

XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX XXX

She couldn't read Vimes at all. There was a policeman standing in the way. He had a truncheon and he wouldn't let her past. 'Who watches the watchers?' she mused, impressed despite herself.

'I do,' said the policeman.

He frowned. 'And I'm not having any ruddy blonde hippies intruding on my watch.'

'I see,' she thought.

'The Quest stands on the edge of a knife,' she said out loud. It was only a few seconds after Celeborn had spoken. 'Stray but a little, and it will fail… '

She'd already known that. It was _the Ring _after all. But who could blame her for being nosy?

Now, where was the aspirin?


	12. Treacle

I'm a little embarrassed about the uneven tone of this story. The idea is that the two worlds begin influencing each other, but I'm not sure how well I've conveyed that. It doesn't help that I leave it so long between updates! I'm VERY embarrassed about my long delays.

Highvalour: It is set after Thud, before Snuff.

Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and _especially _to those wonderful readers who leave a review.

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'Will you look into the Mirror?'

Vimes saluted. There was no way he was looking in that Mirror, but he didn't want to offend Galadriel. She waited for a response. Vimes searched for a polite way to refuse.

'Er… I've already shaved, thanks, I don't need a mirror for-'

'The mirror shows many things,' she said. 'Things that were. Things that are. Maybe even the Pisk…'

'I... that's fine, thanks. I had a nasty experience with time-travel before. I'd rather stay in my own time and place. Even if that time and place isn't my own time and place.'

She nodded gracefully - she did everything gracefully, it was a bit superfluous, thought Vimes, to notice - and bent her head over the mirror herself. 'I see a… I see what could be charitably called a city,' Galadriel said. 'A river oozes through it, and… oh dear … I am glad this mirror is not immersive. Thank Eru it doesn't do _smell. _I see a small boy, wearing his father's helmet, a woman putting ointment on the flaky scales of … is that a dragon? A tiny dragon. Amazing.'

Vimes swallowed. Homesickness punched him in the lungs.

'And that's Vetinari. Ah, this must be Ankh-Morpork!'

'You know Vetinari?'

'Who doesn't know Vetinari? He is talking to a red-headed watchman, a fine figure of a man,' a note of admiration crept in Galadriel's voice. '_Fine_. What's his name?'

'Eh? Carrot; that would be Carrot.' He was itching to have a look in the mirror himself, but so far his distrust of the Mirror was winning out. It didn't even look like a proper mirror. It had water in it.

'Karat. Elvish for 'big muscles'. How fitting. Well, he's showing Vetinari something… a small ornament; no, a badge. Yes, it's a badge. A crown-shaped badge. Vetinari looks… oh dear.'

'What? What is it?'

'Vetinari looks _mildly concerned_.'

Vimes gasped.

Galadriel met Vimes' eyes gravely. 'By your own free choice, you have come to help us, and are caught up in the fate of Middle Earth. And now your own world is in peril. Truly, you have a great heart, Watchman.'

But Vimes hardly heard her. He'd gone pale. 'Royalists…' he whispered to himself. 'The Royalists are back!'

XXXXXXXXX

Gandalf's smoke-ring blowing seminar was a huge success, as was his advanced lecture in Manipulation and Meddling. He found he rather enjoyed teaching, for the first few days. He liked having access to the library (Glamdring had earned him respect from all but the most predatory and defiant of the books) and he liked striding around the corridors with his cloak swishing. He liked joining Ridcully in scorning the overfed, sleepy wizards who made up most of the staff. He liked hinting at his exploits in battle. He liked muttering vague statements that eager students hurriedly wrote down. He liked the steady supply of Pipeweed, even though he hadn't quite got used to its harsher flavour.

After the first few days, though, he'd had enough.

He wasn't like Saruman, living in a tower all his life. He was used to the wind and the rain and the land, following the road and talking to people and creatures of all different types, campfires and small comforts. Being inside without a view of the sky was making him restless, on top of his anxiety for Frodo and the others.

He didn't feel academia was really for him.

He decided he would visit Ponder Stibbons and see about getting home.

Unfortunately, Galadriel also decided she would visit him. Inside his head.

'Gandalf!_ There_ you are! Elrond's been sobbing for a week over you. Blames himself. I certainly don't. What the Mandos are you playing at?'

'Ah. Galadriel. Elen Sila Lumen'Omentielvo. A star shines… '

'Cut that out,' she said firmly. 'Terrible accent. Still, after all these Ages. Embarrassing. And get back here. I've just been talking to Elrond. Do you know what he said? Fool said he wasn't going to order Arwen to take the ships to Valinor because 'that wasn't very modern'. And the rumours are that Theoden of Rohan's niece is learning how to swordfight!'

'Er, that may not actually be Vimes' fault,' said Gandalf. 'She's been learning to swordfight for years. In fact, she's probably already learnt.'

'I don't care,' she said. 'If we're not careful, Middle Earth's whole narrative arc could be disrupted.'

'Oh no,' said Gandalf. 'It isn't that serious, is it?' He went from being amused to deeply worried so quickly he tripped on his robe and nearly swallowed his pipe. Galadriel waited patiently for the fit of coughing to cease.

'Yes,' she said. 'It is. The bad guys could win,'

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Nobody wanted to leave. Vimes overheard Gimli rhapsodising about Lorien, how it was like a dream.

A small, snarky part of Vimes muttered that it was soppy and unrealistic to compare things to dreams, when really dreams were full of teeth and waltzing with your neighbour's pet cat who was also your grocer. But he knew what Gimli meant, there was a real-yet-unreal quality to the place, and time passed strangely, and he did not want to wake up…

Lothlorien was beautiful; it was also _safe_. Vimes was quite enjoying not having an arrow or two whistling over his head every five minutes, and he did not miss being woken by the shout of 'orcs!'

Another reason they didn't want to leave was the hovering sense that the Fellowship were going to have to have a really difficult discussion soon. Vimes was vaguely aware that Boromir and Aragorn had been discussing whether they would the ring to Gondor or go straight on to Mordor. He knew Mordor was the whole point, and that there was no firey volcano in Gondor to destroy the blasted ring, but he had to admit he liked the idea of being in a city again.

A proper city. Not this giant gardening centre.

Like all difficult decisions, Frodo was probably going to have the last say. Vimes felt a pang of sympathy. He was only carrying the entire fate of the world on his shoulders. Why not give him _more _responsibility!? Great! It wasn't like they were supposed to be easing his burden, or anything!

And … Frodo was really in the best state of mind for such decisions. He looked slightly more rested after his stay in Lothlorien. He no looked longer quite as grief-stricken. But the ring was obviously bothering him quite a bit. Worse, Vimes had noticed that the ring seemed to be bothering Boromir a bit, too.

He wondered if he should say something about this to someone, and considered his options. He should probably tell Aragorn, but he was ninety percent sure Aragorn had already guessed. Gimli was sighing like a lovesick teenager; Merry and Pippin were (sensibly) spending as much of their waking time eating or sleeping as they could, and Legolas was literally away with the elves. Sam was spending most of his time at Frodo's side, though on one occasion he stamped around in a fearful temper, muttering about something called the 'Party Tree' and 'that Ted Sandiman.' Vimes didn't want to add to his worry for Frodo, and was also fairly sure that Sam would concuss Boromir with a frying pan if the subject was raised, which would not be productive. So Vimes went back to worrying about Boromir on his own. It was a nice change from missing his family and worrying about himself.

Boromir talked about his dad, Denethor, a bit as well. Vimes immediately decided he liked Denethor, simply because he was not a King. Vimes bristled when Aragorn dropped hints about how he would waltz back in and take over Gondor because of his 'lineage' or 'royal blood', and was surprised that Boromir did not punch him on the nose. But, he reminded himself, yet again, that is not how things worked in Middle Earth. And he had to admit that his respect for Aragorn had been slowly, grudgingly, growing. The nasty, critical part of his mind was being dragged kicking and screaming, fighting tooth-and-nail, into acknowledging that Aragorn was… might be… possibly… maybe if he became King… it wouldn't _necessarily _be the absolute worst thing ever to happen to Gondor. Not the _worst._

He still hated the word 'lineage' though.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The day came to depart Lorien.

'And what gift would a policeman ask of the elves?'

'Treacle,' said Vimes firmly.

Galadriel narrowed her eyes suspiciously. 'Did Vetinari put you up to this?'

Vimes pulled an extremely crumpled and travel-stained piece of paper from his pocket and read woodenly from it. '300 tonnes per year at ten dollars a barrel. I want priority access and first-refusal rights for Ankh-Morpork; most favoured nation status; a concession on export-import tariffs and a waiver on the Inter-Dimensional Fictional Border Tax,'

'Hmmm,' said Galadriel. 'Well, I can do ten dollars a barrel but we have a long-standing agreement with Honeydukes in Hogsmeade, so if we waive the IDFBT for you we'd have to do it for them too, and we can't afford that.'

Vimes scanned the list until he found the correct response. 'Reduce it to five percent instead of seven percent, and we have a deal.'

'Done. I will have to clear if with the rest of the White Council, of course, but frankly that's a formality. Gandalf's fallen into shadow, Saruman has done what I always predicted he would, and Elrond… Well. Elrond is Elrond.' She smiled suddenly at Vimes, like the sun in the morning, and Vimes knew that Galadriel was acting more out of kindness and graciousness than anything else.

Vimes held out his hand for a handshake and Galadriel looked at it politely. Vimes withdrew his hand, coughed in embarrassment, and then settled for nodding in what he hoped was a contractually binding manner.

'Hang on,' said Gimli. 'Can I change mine?'

'What?'

'Weeelll… three pieces of hair? Compared to that deal? I mean, the hair is very nice, but… That will save Ankh-Morpork _thousands _on treacle, not to mention treacle-derivatives! I didn't know we could ask for anything trade-related. Maybe we could negotiate mining rights for the edge of Lothlorien? Prospecting in the Nimrodel? Good gold deposits there.'

'Out of the question,' said Galadriel. 'Mining? You can't chop a single small tree down around here without the whole lot of them protesting. Occupy Caras Galdhorn, it was, last time, and it lasted for _centuries._'

Not long ago, Gimli would have snorted something uncomplimentary about tree-hugging hippies, but his attitude towards elves was changing. 'Well,' he said. 'How about you sell us the blueprints for your clever staircase out there? They're remarkably resistant to the pressures of people walking on them, and they move with the trees! Amazing!'

'Oh, you noticed?' Galadriel looked pleased. 'I designed it myself.'

'The design is riveting,' said Gimli enthusiastically. 'And the rivets are so well designed. Our engineers could make use of those plans, and it could be very useful indeed to improve the safety of our Halls in the Blue Mountains. We can pay in gold.'

'Consider them a gift,' said Galadriel. 'And you may keep the hair,'

Gimli went pink in the face and smiled shyly.

'Hang on,' said Legolas. 'Can I change mine?'

'Oh no,' said Galadriel. 'No, no, no. Absolutely not. I am not entering into any type of trade relationship with Thranduil. No business, no contracts, no negotiating, no discussions of any kind. I wasn't born last Age. I'm not repeating _that _mistake. I've only just got the Southern edge of my forest back the way I like it.'

'No, not that. It's… it's just the bow. Everyone always gives me bows. I feel so… so typecast.' He looked crestfallen.

'You may need it,' said Galadriel. 'I see war ahead of you. Ahead of all of you. Battle and bloodshed.'

'In that case,' said Vimes. 'I also need new boots…'

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Vetinari placed the small crown-shaped badge in a drawer he kept for that sort of thing and smiled thinly.

Around him, the city was in chaos, which was normal. But the chaos was following patterns. The balance of narrativium was tipping. Vimes' absence was certainly being felt.

Things were slithering into Ankh-Morpork and into people's minds. Shaping their dreams, changing their ideas, whispering to them of Destiny; of princesses for the rescuing; of shining castles and happy endings… They were the Tropes, and they had returned.

He briefly considered bringing in Granny Weatherwax from Lancre. He would if things got more serious. For now, though, Middle Earth was getting the shake-up it needed.

He wasn't too worried about Ankh-Morpork. He was certainly keeping a close eye on developments, but Ankh-Morpork's citizens were remarkably resistant. They were responding to the forces of Narrative as they responded to everything. With capitalism.

He took a careful bite of the complimentary rabbit-and-bluebird pizza he'd been sent by the Seven Dwarves' Fried Woodland Animals Bar & Bistro, and smiled. There was almost no gristle this time.


	13. Shocking Developments

Hello, friends. Thank you for reading and reviewing.

I don't own anything!

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They were shown to three beautiful narrow boats carved out of silvery wood into the likeness of swans. Vimes eyed them warily.

'Those… those are just to get us across to the other side of the river, right?' said Sam.

'No, we will follow the Anduin along the river for quite a distance, stopping above the falls of Rauros,' said Boromir.

'Oh,' said Vimes.

'Oh,' said Sam.

'Oh,' said Gimli

'Oh, said Frodo.

'Come now,' said Aragorn. 'These are nice, safe boats. The river is fast but calm. You'll be fine.'

'Both my parents drowned in a boat this size,' said Frodo. 'I can't believe your insensitivity!'

'I can't swim.'

'Me neither.'

'In this armour? I'd sink I fell in! And rust if I was splashed.'

Aragorn fixed his eyes nobly on the horizon, stepped into the boat, and ignored them.

'The trauma!' Frodo said, 'I'm reliving it!' Gimli patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. They stepped carefully aboard and each clung fiercely to the side of their respective boats. Sam made a rude hand gesture at Aragorn. There was some hastily muffled snickering.

_It's nice that we're all bonding and making friends,_ Vimes thought, _but why can't we bond over a nice safe picnic or something?_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Carrot had already been special, but things were getting ridiculous. Now, he glowed when he walked down the street. And not metaphorically, either. He broke his sword breaking up a troll street fight, and a mysterious cloaked man reforged it for him. And _hadn't even left a bill._

No less than three long-lost elvish princesses had declared their underlying love for him last Tuesday alone, and the only thing that made Vetinari feel better about it was that Angua bit one, one lost her fake ears when the glue dissolved in the rain, and the last turned out to be Nobby in drag, who claimed he was "getting into the spirit of things".

Vetinari did not like the current spirit of things.

And then there were the names. Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, or He-Who-Suffers-Concussion, to give him his dwarfish title. Surely that was enough for anyone to be getting on with? But no. Suddenly, Carrot was acquiring extra names left, right and centre. And Vetinari wasn't happy about it.

What was the latest? Telcontarmac, wasn't it? He-Who-Gives-Parking-Tickets. And then elderly tourist had named him 'Quickfoot,' hadn't he? Because Carrot had chased the handbag thief so quickly? Admittedly, she may not have been bestowing a title. She may just have been trying to flirt with Carrot in a language she didn't quite grasp, but still. Carrot had several more names than he'd had when Vimes left.

And the last time Carrot had given Vetinari an update, Vetinari could have sworn there was a little flame flickering on his forehead, magically.

It was simply unacceptable. Thank Gods Carrot himself remained cheerfully oblivious.

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Galadriel sighed. 'I know what you're calling about, but it's out of my hands now, Havelock. He's gone. Left this morning.'

'Please continue,' Vetinari said, and only his deeply calm demeanour gave away how worried he was.

'I thought he was going straight back, I really did! _Especially _after the highly generous terms I allowed for the treacle. Which, incidentally, you put him up to. Don't pretend you didn't.'

Vetinari waited silently, although he was pleased about the treacle.

'I know you need to bring him back, and I'll do what I can, but he's left my domain. There's nothing I can do. It's… It's _beyond my sphere of influence_.' she hated admitting this, and Vetinari winced to hear it. It was like one mobster admitting to another that he was squeamish around blood. Embarrassing for everyone.

'Madam, I assure you-'

'He decided to go with Frodo,' she said softly. 'They all decided to go on.'

Her eyes were suspiciously bright, and she blinked for a second or two before she continued.

'Anyway, any progress on the Carrot thing?' He could see she was tilting her fountain in an effort to see into the corners of the room, in case was standing just out of sight.

'I still do not understand why you have to _see _Carrot to give your opinion on the situation,' said Vetinari in a tone of voice that assured Galadriel he knew her motives exactly.

'Oh, I definitely need to see him.' said Galadriel, utterly unashamed. 'And the more of him the better.'

'He's busy,' said Vetinari. 'Busy acting as a lightning rod for all this extra narrativium that's floating around.

'Pity.'

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The boats weren't too bad, once you got used to them. Vimes was able to drift into his own thoughts as they paddled smoothly along. He'd been as surprised as any of the others when he'd announced he was staying with the Fellowship.

'We'll miss you,' Pippin had said, when they'd been left alone to pack.

'But that's great about the treacle!' Sam had added warmly, and the others had nodded. Frodo chimed in with a recipe for treacle tart. They had the idea from somewhere that Vimes' Pisk was a treacle-free land, and were genuinely happy that he'd be able to bring treacle to the masses, even if they personally couldn't see what the fuss was all about.

'And it will be good to see your family again,' said Merry.

Vimes' brain agreed, but his mouth said 'I'm going to keep going.'

He went cross-eyed in shock as the words left his mouth.

The hobbits watched him. 'You don't have to,' said Frodo, kindly, 'You've already done more than anyone could expect.' The irony of this seemed to be lost on him.

'Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens,' Vimes replied. Now, where the hell had _that_ come from?

The hobbits looked at one another, and each face broke into a delighted grin.

The taller members of the Fellowship were delighted as well. Vimes could tell because of all the bruising. Boromir clapped Vimes manfully on the back, almost breaking his spine. Gimli shook his hand, crushing even the smallest and fiddliest bones. Aragorn gave him a bear-hug and didn't smell as bad as he normally did. Several ribs felt in danger of cracking.

Legolas gave him his favourite leaf.

'Only to hold, mind,' he said anxiously, patting the tree it had come from as if soothing it, 'Then it has to go straight back for humification.'

Vimes was too bruised to reply.

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At the High Energy Building, Ponder had managed to grasp what Gandalf wanted in a remarkably short amount of time. Unfortunately they'd done something to Ridcully's Palantir the night they got drunk and played bowls with it, and it was refusing to focus properly. They'd used Hex to link two Palantiri and the Fountain, but Gandalf was far too impatient to let Ponder perfect the connection.

Galadriel wasn't helping matters. The three-way link up had created audio problems, and it was making her impatient. Her bright-blue stare had Ponder breaking out in hives from sheer nervousness.

'Twiddle the dial – no, the other dial! Ok, plug in the thing. Plug in the thing. Plug it in. The thing. Plug it in.'

There was a woosh, a crackle, and the smell of burnt magic. Galadriel's voice suddenly echoed round the small room. '

'Can you hear me now?'

'Perfectly clearly,' said Gandalf. 'You see, no need to resort to psychic wavelengths.'

'Ah, hello Gandalf,' said Galadriel. 'Still on holiday, I see.'

Gandalf bristled. 'I _died._' he said.

'Retired, did you? Yes, I thought you were looking a little tired.'

'How's everything going? How are the hobbits?'

Galadriel instantly became worried. If Gandalf didn't even have the energy to respond properly to a veiled insult…

'They're strong.' she said, 'and they're looking after each other. They could change the course of the future. But the Quest stands on the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and they will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains, while the Company is true.'

'And is it?'

'True? Do you know, I think it is. _For now_,' she added, before anyone could relax. 'But all my calculations are being thrown out by your Vimes character.'

'I know,' said Gandalf wearily. 'It concerns me too. Has Vetinari agreed to take him back?'

'Vetinari wants him back, but he's carried on with the Fellowship. Are you- Gandalf, are you smiling? Wipe that smile off your face this instant.'

'Apologies,' said Gandalf, moustache twitching. He looked positively gleeful, as if he'd heard some good news he was waiting for. Ridcully couldn't help noting, suspiciously, that Galadriel was smiling too. 'I'm absolutely shocked by this development.'

Galadriel nodded gravely. 'Shocking,' she said. 'And after all I did to persuade him to come home.' 'It won't do, you know,' she said. 'Middle Earth is getting very strange. You know that Eowyn?'

'What? Eowyn of Rohan? What's she got to do with anything?'

'She's _sword-fighting.'_

'So?'

'A strong female character! In Middle-earth!'

Gandalf said, 'I thought it was strong _mortal _characters you didn't believe in?'

'I don't believe in those either. And Eowyn is both!'

'I think you'll find, the history of Middle Earth is _full _of strong female characters,' Gandalf said. 'I've met many of them myself.'

'I don't believe in strong female characters!' Galadriel said, so fiercely that Ridcully, Ponder and Gandalf all turned pale.

'I believe Eowyn is acting entirely on her own,' said Gandalf. 'I don't think Vimes had anything to do with it.'

'Oh, well, it's about time some of those horse-mortals learnt to fight,' Galadriel said. 'Hopefully she can marry her brother off to some strategic Gondorian princess and rule Rohan. She's more likely to win a game of thrones then that scruffy horse-whisperer.'

'But you just said-'

'Try to keep up,' said Galadriel. She was enjoying herself hugely. This was so much better than talking to Elrond! He'd have burst into tears twice by now. And Gandalf was cheering up as well, she could tell. He loved debates like this. Good, it would distract him from his dratted hobbits.

She wondered what Thranduil would make of Vimes? That might be amusing. 'Really a shame about Vimes,' she said again, for good measure.

'Yes,' said Gandalf. 'What a shame there's no way of bringing him back. Now he'll just have to carry on with the Fellowship.'

Ridcully looked quickly between them, but didn't see them wink at each other. Yet it was almost as if they were having a conversation nobody else could hear.

And then Vetinari walked silently into the room. 'I've had an idea,' he said, by way of introduction, while they reeled. He coolly examined Hex and then silently plugged Vimes' spare badge into a little slot that looked as if it had been made for it.

Then he neatly some co-ordinates. Hex whirred.

'What are you doing?' Gandalf asked.

'Bringing back Vimes,' said Vetinari. 'At least, I hope so. How accurate is this machine?'

'It's not,' said Ponder, gulping. 'It's reliable but it isn't precise. It has a catchment area of about half a metre.'

'But worth a try,' said Gandalf, sounding disappointed. 'Very good thinking.'

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They sat around a small campfire on the shores of the river Anduin, sulking. At least, Vimes was sulking, because he'd tried to light the fire himself and after the third burnt finger Gimli had very kindly suggested he might help.

Merry was collecting firewood, Sam was peeling potatoes, and Legolas was staring at the opposite bank the way a cat stares suddenly at nothing. But, Gimli, Pippin, Boromir and Aragorn were having an extremely awkward conversation about whether they'd go to Gondor or straight on to Mordor. Gimli and Pippin seemed mostly to be peace-keeping.

'Aragorn,' said Legolas quietly. 'We should leave now. Orcs patrol-'

'No, we must wait for cover of darkness,'

'But Orcs can see in the dark!' Pippin pointed out. But Aragorn had already turned back to Boromir to explain very patientlywhy Boromir's faith in his father might be the tiniest bit, well, _misplaced._

Vimes ignored them. They would just end up making poor Frodo decide anyway.

Because it wasn't like he had enough of a burden to carry.

On cue, he heard the words, 'Let the Ringbearer decide!' But before he could roll his eyes properly, Merry returned.

'Where's Frodo?'

Everyone, including Vimes, jumped to their feet immediately. They took off running, with Aragorn's shouts to 'stay together!' and 'calm down, for Eru's sake!' fading into the distance.

A few minutes later, Vimes was lost and puffed. He had stitch. He decided to head back to the fire, in case Frodo had made his own way back and was feeling abandoned.

But Frodo wasn't back at the campsite, and as the shadows lengthened Vimes heard, to his horror, the shouts of orcs.

Then he heard, to his even bigger horror, the horn of Gondor.

Instantly he was up and racing towards the sound, his breath rasping in his lungs. He nearly sprained an ankle on a tree root and a tree-branch stung his face.

He reached Boromir just before a new wave of orcs did. A pile already lay dead at Boromir's feet. He raised the horn again. Vimes wrenched it away.

'You idiot!' he said. 'Shut that thing off! What are you _doing?_ Do you want to get us all killed?'

'The horn of Gondor! It will bring us aid. Our friends will hear it!

'Stop blowing it,' said Vimes, throwing the horn to the ground and stamping on it for good measure. 'because,_ the Orcs can hear it too.'_

Boromir knelt and picked up the smashed horn. An arrow whistled harmlessly over his head. Vimes meeped and ducked behind Boromir as a massive, cross-bow wielding Orc blotted out the sun. Then he noticed Merry and Pippin, each clutching a ridiculously tiny sword and glaring at the Orc with all their might. Ashamed, Vimes straightened his spine and ducked back.

'Bugger off!' he screamed his warcry at the huge orc, and together they charged. Vimes rugby tackled it to the ground and Boromir cut its head off. It could have been over quickly, Vimes wasn't sure. The adrenaline was pounding through him so violently that he bit his own sword. But they'd felled the orc, and were now crouched very quietly behind a large fallen tree while Boromir mournfully tried to piece his horn together.

'Elendiiiiiiiiiiiiiil!' they heard, through the trees, and a second later Aragorn charged into view. 'Boromir?' he asked the empty clearing.

'Here!' they hissed. Aragorn was covered in orc-blood and sporting several cuts and bruises. He joined them behind the tree. It was getting a bit squashed.

'Budge up! Anyone seen Frodo and Sam?' he whispered. Pippin and Merry shook their heads worriedly, but Boromir refused to meet Aragorn's eye.

Orcs ran past. A few minutes later, they ran back the other way, one of them angrily waving a blanket. They'd obviously found the deserted campsite.

Legolas arrived. He picked something up near the Orc with the crossbow they'd killed before crossing over to them.

'Is this yours?' he asked Vimes.

'Thanks!' It was his badge, his city watch badge. He must have dropped it when he rugby-tackled that orc. He didn't remember having it with him.

'Can I have a look?' Merry asked curiously. Vimes shrugged and nodded. Then Gimli ran into the clearing. They waved and hissed at him as well and he squashed in beside Aragorn. Legolas decided that being up a tree was more his style, and disappeared into the branches with his bow and arrow. Merry passed Vimes' badge to Pippin, who examined it curiously. Then Gimli admired the tiny pin and latch and started muttering about metal workmanship. The same group of Orcs ran past again. Blanket Orc was still waving its blanket, now slightly tattered. Pippin and Merry had to be elbowed because they were dissolving into giggles.

'Where are Frodo and Sam?' Vimes asked, very quietly, when it was Boromir's turn to be distracted by the little City Watch badge.

'I let Frodo go,' said Aragorn. 'Sam went with him. His fate is no longer in our hands.'

There was a strange light in Aragorn's eyes. He looked every inch a King, and for the first time in his life Vimes meant that as a compliment. He nodded respectfully at Aragorn; a nod that could almost have been a bow.

'So, we'll just keep an eye on these Orcs, then,' Vimes said.

'The longer they chase around here, the greater distance Frodo and Sam can put between them.' Aragorn said. 'Them and us,' he added. 'We'll fight them when we need to.'

And then Boromir disappeared.


	14. Schrodinger's Narrative

**Schrodinger's Narrative **

One second Boromir was examining Vimes' badge intently, to distract himself from the uncomfortable new experience of hiding from orcs. _Well, there's a first time for everything,_ he thought to himself, turning Vimes' badge over between finger and thumb.

The next second, the world went strange.

First, everything around him – the badge, the trees, the sky, the orcs rushing past - _stretched. _The world became a smear of colours; the heavy treads and harsh cries of orcs sounding tinny and distorted in Boromir's ears. The noises were almost drowned out by a fierce rushing and pounding, as if he was underwater in a particularly aggressive river. If Boromir had known what a washing machine was, he would have felt like a dirty sock.

Then reality pinged painfully back into place. He was as winded as if he'd just been kicked in the stomach. The whole experience was as confusing and tiresome as a lazy author's over-reliance on bad similes and breaking the fourth wall.

The second after that, Boromir was standing in a city street. His ears were back to normal and he no longer wanted to be sick. There was shouting. There were interesting smells. There were people, brandishing weapons and dressed in a uniform that made him think of the guards of the citadel back home_. Was_ he home? He wasn't sure. He tried to get his bearings, took a deep lungful of air which he instantly regretted. More shouting. Looking around, he could see men, women, dwarves, and – was that – was that a tr-

'They have a cave troll!' he said.

Something went _thud. _ He staggered, and looked down. There was a crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest.

It was going to be one of those days.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

'What the BLEEP is going on!" demanded Ridcully, retrieving his hat. The burst of green light from damn silly Ponder's damn silly relocation machine had blown it off his head so hard that it had dented the wall. He straightened the brim, and fished the broken shards of what had been a rather fine bottle of whisky out of its secret lining before mournfully replacing it with a squelch.

Ponder muttered frantically to himself, tripping switches, switching trip-wires, wiring circuits and short-circuiting wires.

'Who?' said Vetinari. The others gaped at him.

'Er – someone in the object's locality-'

'Clearly,' said Vetinari.

'Wait – what's going on here? What d'yer mean, 'who'? What the hell happened? Where's Vimes?' Ridcully blinked trickles of whisky out of his eyes, and glared at Ponder.

'You're saying that we picked up someone else?' said Gandalf. An evil thought occurred to him. Maybe if they'd accidentally picked up _Frodo – _the Ring would have to stay in Ankh Morpork. Such a shame; nothing to be done about it. Unfortunate. Most unfortunate.

Deep in his beard, he grinned a secret grin.

'It would have to be somebody of the same approximate dimensions and mass,' said Galadriel through the Palantir, as if, or perhaps literally, reading his mind.

'Damn,' said Gandalf. 'I mean, that's interesting.' Vetinari looked at him expressionlessly, which would have caused a lesser individual to sweat in fear. Gandalf merely twinkled unrepentantly.

'Ponder,' said Ridcully, tapping a heavy foot impatiently. 'I'm sure you're about to explain to all of us here, soon, _now,_ what the bloody hell went wrong, and exactly what you are doing to fix it.'

Ponder looked at everyone. Everyone glared back. Ponder whimpered. It was enough of a strain on his nerves dealing with Ridcully. But to throw in that terrifying woman, the mad old coot with the beard, and Vetinari – well, it was too much for anyone.

His nerves were already strained to breaking point. It just wasn't _fair. _

Ponder took the coward's way out. He sagged. His knees gave out. He collapsed, prone and twitching, in a small puddle of his own drool.

Gandalf sighed and stepped over him. 'Well, you know what they say,' he said. 'If you want something doing properly, you have to emotionally blackmail a hobbit to do it.'

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

'Idiot came out of nowhere!' said Angua, stuffing the torn end of her sleeve into the wound and trying not to inhale the scent of blood. Her brain was trying to ignore what her nose was saying; that this man wasn't from around here. Wasn't from Ankh-Morpork. Maybe not even from the Disc.

The Night Watch was chasing down the last few members of the gang now. They'd been trying to round them up for months. What was it they called themselves again? The Criminally Criminal Criminals, that was it. Stupid, yes, but vicious. Fortunately, the Watch had suffered only a couple of minor injuries. In fact, before this armed ruffian had appeared right in the middle of the skirmish, Angua would have said things were going quite well.

Where had he come from?

A shout came from up ahead. Angua shoved thoughts of the Dungeon Dimension to the back of her mind and sprang into action. 'Igor!' she yelled, and dashed after the fleeing man who was now the last undetained member of the Criminally Criminal Criminals.

xxxxx

Back in Middle Earth, when Boromir disappeared, almost simultaneously, an orc's war cry had risen from the direction of the Fellowship's abandoned camp, and everyone – everyone who wasn't in the process of mysteriously disappearing, that is – had turned towards it.

The cry was bloodthirsty and uncomfortably close. It was joined by a clamouring of goblin voices; whether they conveyed triumph or anger, Vimes wasn't sure, but he didn't like it.

'Frodo!' Pippin cried, working on the reasonable assumption that if there were evil creatures attacking, Frodo was likely to be their target and probably wasn't doing much to defend himself. Pippin sprang to his feet and raced towards the shouts, followed by an exasperated-but-concerned Merry, and the rest of the non-disappearing Fellowship.

The war-cry had come from an Uruk-hai at the river, who had spotted something moving on the opposite bank which he had wanted to attack. Vimes wondered briefly if it was Sam and Frodo he'd seen, before he was fighting for his life and cursing himself for missing a perfectly good opportunity to stay sensibly hidden in the undergrowth.

They didn't realise that Boromir was gone until after a short pitched battle with several massive Uruk-Hai. Luckily for the remainder of the Fellowship, they'd only had to fight a fraction of the hundreds of orcs swarming around Amon Hen. The other orcs, and their captive blanket, had disappeared into the distance, having been distracted and infuriated by the rustling of a small rabbit. Vimes felt sorry for it.

'What now?' Vimes asked.

Aragorn furrowed his brow. 'I'm not sure,' he said. 'I feel suddenly purposeless, as if there's something I ought to be doing…'

They hunted urgently for Frodo, Sam, and Boromir, until Aragorn, adopting a carefully unreadable expression, showed the others the marks where Frodo and Sam had pulled one of the boats off the bank. 'Frodo's fate is no longer in our hands,' he said, again. 'He and Sam have gone on alone. But I can find no sign of Boromir. At first I'd feared he was hurt, but we would have found something by now.'

_Never play poker with Aragorn_, Vimes thought, impressed by his default noble expression which never gave anything away.

'Then what?' asked Merry. They were gathered around the strewn remnants of their camp. 'Could he have followed Frodo and Sam?'

Aragorn stood in thought for a long moment. 'No,' he said finally. 'I think he left,'

'Faithless is he who says farewell at the loss of a blanket,' said Gimli, frowning. 'I would not have believed it of him.'

'And I do not believe he is faithless,' said Aragorn. 'My guess is that he left for noble reasons: he was worried that he presented a danger to the Fellowship, and for that reason he left us.' He fell silent, and Vimes guessed there was more that he was not saying. He noticed that none of the Fellowship seemed surprised: he was obviously not the only one to have noticed Boromir's sleepless mutterings and covetous glances at Frodo.

'It's still a riddle,' said Aragorn, 'but I can think of no other explanation.'

'Could the orcs have taken him?' Gimli asked anxiously.

'I mean this as a compliment,' said Vimes, 'but I don't think they'd want him. Alive.'

'Well, we have to follow Frodo!' Pippin burst out. 'That's why we're here! What are we waiting for?'

But it was now fully dark, and they were exhausted. Even Merry and Pippin conceded that it was far too late to catch up with Frodo and Sam tonight. 'For now,' said Merry darkly, clearly unconvinced that Frodo was better off without the Company's company (so to speak).

They sat around the (unlit) campfire in the dark and the cold. Nobody was talking much, but nobody felt like sleeping either. Pippin was uncharacteristically silent. All they could do was wait until it was light, whereupon everyone knew there'd be another huge argument over whether to follow Frodo and Sam or not. Merry was already glaring obstinately at Aragorn in preparation.

'They're safer this way,' said Aragorn for the fortieth time.

'I can't help but worry…' Gimli said. 'The boats gone…. And neither of them could swim.'

Pippin sniffed and rubbed his eyes frantically. Merry switched his glare to Gimli.

Eventually, one by one, they slept. Pippin was on watch, and Merry was keeping him company, because, in Merry's words, '_We _can't sleep while our _friends _are_ missing'_. Vimes fell asleep to the sound of the hobbits whispering about their lost cousin and friend.

There was a shimmer in the air, which no-one saw.

When they woke, the hobbits were gone. _All _the hobbits were gone.

Their packs remained, but there was not a sign of Merry or Pippin. Not a shred of abandoned pipeweed, not an apple core, not a footprint.

The only sign was the faint smell of fireworks, and an elvish rune, the letter G.

'G', said Legolas suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at Gimli, who erupted.

Aragorn sighed and strode into the fray, wearing his most diplomatic face and Boromir's abandoned shield.

Vimes, though, was distracted. He ignored the shouting behind him ("Why would I wantto use _elvish _runes?! Dwarves have a perfectly good alphabet, thankyouverymuch, which doesn't look like earthworms mating!' 'Well, who else was it? Garagorn?' 'Come on, you two, you can't really suspect each other… I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation… Put that knife _down!_') and scanned the sky. A bird was flying South, an eagle, perhaps. Not that Vimes was very good at recognising birds. All he could really be confident about was that it was some species bigger than a pigeon.

'Do you think they went after Frodo and Sam?' Vimes asked, once Gimli and Legolas had been separated and were ignoring each other at opposite ends of the clearing, and Aragorn had stopped muttering under his breath about how _'running a kingdom will be a breeze compared to this'. _

'No,' said Aragorn. 'They would have told us.'

'Then what happened?'

'I don't know.'

'How can you not know?' Vimes asked.

Aragorn took a deep breath. Then another. He seemed to be counting slowly to ten. Then he jumped to his feet, his face drawn with shock.

'Look,' he whispered.

Lying by the campfire, where Merry had been sitting the night before, was a blanket. A blanket they all recognised.

'A blanket!' said Legolas, trying to be helpful.

'Blanket orc,' whispered Gimli. 'They've taken the hobbits!'

xxxxxxxx

Boromir came to. This was the worse hangover ever. Then he saw the bleeding mess his torso had become. A face swam into view. Something was wrong with it.

He'd never before met anyone so… so _stitched-together _looking.

He only had a couple of seconds to focus on it. There was the interesting line of sewing across the nose, the lopsided ears…

Bu then the face faded. Images of his life flashed before his eyes. _Aragorn was right,_ Boromir thought woozily, as unconsciousness took him, _My father has got some serious issues._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At this point, Schrodinger's Narrative tells us that Boromir could be in of two states. He could be alive, or he could be dead.

In fact, he occupies a third state: Confused but Furious New Zombie.

He doesn't know this yet.

He will.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx


End file.
